


John's Alibi (another Lost Special)

by fellshish



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, Dubcon Kissing, Eurus? Who is she?!, Fix-It, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Mentions of drugs, Mentions of torture in the past, TJLC, The Lost Special, Very light dubcon, john's alibi, mystrade, no dogs will be hurt, one day the true story may be told, people will die but no important people i promise, s4 is the blog theory, s4 was told by an unreliable narrator and this is the true story behind it basically, season 4 fix-it, some violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-04
Updated: 2017-10-03
Packaged: 2018-12-24 00:17:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 24,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12000939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fellshish/pseuds/fellshish
Summary: “John Watson is no longer updating his blog.” Until suddenly, he is. One day, the true story may be told. This is the day.----This fan fic explores the theory that the show is now the blog (a lie, a half-truth). Basically, the season 4 events as seen on screen, were told by an unreliable narrator.There are four chapters in this fic, starting with the unveiling of the 'real events' during His Last Vow, and ending with The Final Problem. This is a finished fic.





	1. His Last Vow

**Author's Note:**

> This fan fic would not have been possible without toxicsemicolon's and shinka's theories about the blog, and the theories of many very talented tjlc'ers. Some of these are even my own ideas ;)
> 
> Special thanks to [Ariane DeVere](http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/) , without whose transcripts this fic wouldn't exist.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A re-imagining of 'His Last Vow'. Would John really forgive Mary for shooting Sherlock?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An extra special thanks to my beta reader [chrysanthemumsies](http://chrysanthemumsies.tumblr.com/) .

 

 

**JOHNWATSONBLOG.CO.UK**

 

\-- new update –-

26th December

**Title: His last vow**

When Charles Augustus Magnussen was taking a piss – literally – in Baker Street, I knew he meant serious business. He was a business man doing his business, I mean.

Sherlock, who had been dating a woman in his employment, was not that bothered by it. But how is he ever going to light the fireplace again? I guess the smell is not too bad compared to the smell of decaying bodies or one of his other experiments. Trust me, I know.

Anyway, long story short: my wife, whom I am still living with and very much in love with, saved Sherlock's life by shooting him but not really killing him. She is an excellent shot, don't ask lol. He took a few months to heal, and then we all met up for Christmas at the Holmeses. But after some quite heavy punch and before dinner, we went to Magnussen's place to retrieve some vital information. Things got rather heated. Now they're sending Sherlock on an exile.

 

**REALITY**

 

'Sherlock? Sherlock, can you hear me?'

John pats his unconscious friend on the cheek, and lowers his cheek to Sherlock's mouth to check for breathing – very shallow, almost imperceptible. Was he knocked out? No blood on his face. At the other side of the room, Magnussen is trying to get up. How can they both have been unconscious? He needs someone who's an expert at reading crime scenes, but John only knows how to shoot and kill, and heal and... diagnose. Diagnose first, right.

'What happened?', John asks, only barely hiding the panic in his voice. He'd only been away for a few minutes, checking up on Janine, when he heard a stumble. Sherlock hadn't replied to his shouts anymore, so he'd gone up the stairs to check.

'He got shot', Magnussen says. He's clearly still in pain from the hit to his head.

'Jesus', John breathes. He opens Sherlock's coat to find a huge bloodstain spreading on his shirt, near his heart. This can't be happening. He only just got Sherlock back. 'Sherlock! Oh my –'

Magnussen slowly reaches for his glasses, seemingly not in any hurry to help.

'Who shot him?', John yells at the media mogul, who only stares back, curious, as if studying a strange specimen. John starts dialing his cell.

'Emergency, which service do you require', a woman on the phone answers. John glares at Magnussen. There's also a continuous ringing in John's inner ear. Must be something wrong with the phone. _Can't panic now. Sherlock needs me._

'My friend's.... been shot, in the chest, near his heart. Four minutes ago at most. Address is CAM Global News tower at Hatton Garden. Can't miss it, huge tower! Please come quickly.'

'Yes', the woman on the phone says, 'We're already aware of the situation. The ambulance will be there any second. Please remain calm. Are there any threats left in the building? Are you safe?'

John stares at Magnussen. 'Yes... Yes, I am.' He's not sure if Magnussen is, though.

He turns off the phone and lays it nearby. He takes off his jacket, pauses, then takes off his shirt and tank top.

'Doctor Watson, this is hardly the time...', Magnussen says, but John ignores him. He crumples up his tank top and uses it to put pressure on the wound. It's all he can do without any proper medical equipment. 'Sherlock, Sherlock, are you there, stay with me, Sherlock', he keeps talking, just in case the detective hears him, but also to reassure himself. Not dead. Alive, and bleeding, breathing under his hand. And he's right back on the battlefield. 'You miss it', Mycroft said to him a long time ago, but no. Not this. With Sherlock Holmes you see the battlefield – true. But it wasn't supposed to be like this.

Magnussen, meanwhile, is unmoving, observing them both. 'I, of course, dialed the police and ambulance with one push on the panic button of my phone', he says. 'Even before she shot him.'

John ignores him. Ignores the _she_. Sherlock is all that matters, now. He needs to get him out of there alive. It isn't until long after the excruciating ambulance ride, and even long after Sherlock wakes up and utters the word 'Mary', that John remembers Magnussen's words: _Even before she shot him._

 

_***_

 

There's a padded chair next to Sherlock's hospital bed and John Watson stares at it for a long time. Seven hours of surgery, seven hours of walking up and down the dreaded hallway, and the result is a pale, bare-chested barely-alive detective attached to a steady morphine drip, and John can't wait for him to wake up so he can solve his own bloody murder.

It wasn't Magnussen, that much is certain. It was likely the burglar who knocked down Janine and the racist guard. Or multiple burglars? It could be anyone, then. Magnussen has a lot of powerful enemies. But who wouldn't he turn in if he had the chance? And who would kill Sherlock, but leave Magnussen alive?

John's phone beeps. It's Mary.

 

_Just woke up and saw yr messages. Srry, heavy sleeper. Coming to hospital asap. MW_

 

John takes a seat. He's oddly not tired at all. Still wired up from all the adrenaline. He needs to stay awake anyway, in case the murderer comes back to finish the job.

Next to him, Sherlock's fingers twitch. John hesitantly reaches out, then changes his mind and feels his pulse instead. He's so skinny, he's almost transparant. Sherlock's heartbeat drums against his fingers, and John loses count over and over again. It's as though Sherlock's wrist is keeping him grounded, keeping him in the room, and John is not merely the doctor; they are keeping track of each other's existence.

Sherlock's fingers twitch again, and his eyes flutter open.

'Mary', he says, voice hoarse and rough. And falls right back into a deep, deep sleep.

***

  
'Oh you, Mrs. Watson, you're in big trouble', John says, teasing his wife in the hospital hallway.

'Really? Why?', she reacts in surprise, brow furrowing.

John smiles. 'His first word when he woke up? Mary!'

He embraces her. She smells lovely.

  
***

 

It's exactly one week later when Sherlock disappears from his hospital bed. One week of frustrating visiting times in which John pressed him to give up the name of the shooter, to no avail. And now Sherlock has disappeared. With the shooter still at large, John nearly loses his mind, but Lestrade seems to assume he's just off to one of his bolt holes. They question everyone they can think of. John phones Mary, tells her he'll be home later, which he's not exactly sure is not a lie. How could he go home when Sherlock is missing? They go to Baker Street instead.

Because maybe they've been missing the obvious, right? After five impossible hiding places, and Molly's bedroom topping it all off, Sherlock might just have been in the mood to discharge himself from the hospital and go home.

'He's cocky like that', John tells Lestrade. 'He could be sitting right –'

They both stare at the empty chairs in front of the fireplace, while Mrs. Hudson fumbles for tea and suggests the Big Ben as a bolt hole.

'I think he was probably joking', John tells her. He starts pacing. 'He knew who shot him', he tells Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson, mirroring a detective making his deductions. He points at his own chest, frowning. 'The bullet wound was here, so he was facing whoever it was.'

Lestrade takes a few steps closer, reasoning out loud. 'So why not tell us? Because he's tracking them down himself.'

'Or protecting him', John suggests.

'Protecting the shooter? Why?'

'Well, protecting _someone_ then', John says. 'But why would he care? He's _Sherlock_. Who would he bother protecting?'

John takes a seat in his old chair. Rubs the arm rests, frowns. The last time he was here, Sherlock had moved the chair because it was 'blocking his view to the kitchen'.

Lestrade's phone bleeps. It's a message.

 

_Am downstairs. Leave. M._

 

'Call me if you hear anything. Don't hold out on me, John', Lestrade says, deleting the message immediately. Feeling like a hypocrite, he quickly slips his phone back into his pocket and bolts for the stairs.

 _Even before she shot him_ , Magnussen's words echo in his brain. John looks at the moon-shaped perfume bottle that's set on the small table next to him. Claire de la Lune. It's the perfume Sherlock identified at CAM Tower. It's Lady Smallwood's perfume. It's also Mary's. She wore it on her wedding day. When he told her she smelled lovely, she had kissed him and told him it translated to 'light of the moon'. Named after an old French folk song. She sang it for him. _Ouvrez votre porte pour le Dieu d'Amour... Mais je sais que la porte sur eux se ferma..._ He hadn't even known she spoke French.

John's phone starts ringing. It's Sherlock. Some relief washes over him, then anger. So that impossible disappearing twat is fine then. Is he though? Sherlock never calls, he prefers to text.

'John! You have to answer it', Mrs Hudson insists. She holds out the buzzing phone, as if it's as fragile as a beating heart.

John stares at the bottle of perfume, with growing resentment. Sherlock must have set this up for him to find. Still weak from surgery, he moved a giant chair and bought perfume. Why? He grabs the phone, and Mrs Hudson goes downstairs to give them privacy. He doesn't even notice her hitched breath when she comes across someone there. All he hears is Sherlock's low voice on the other end of the telephone.

 

'John.'

'Sherlock, Christ, you can't just disappear like that. Not with your wound and all.'

'John, listen. This is extremely important. I need you to come to the empty houses at Leinster Gardens. Now. I'll meet you on the corner.'

'You can't just expect me to drop all my plans at a moment's notice.'

'What plans? You've been looking for me. Now, find me!'

 _That annoying git._ 'Sherlock... Your chair –'

'Ooh, I think I feel a hint of pain in my chest. Come aid me, doctor.'

 

Just like that, Sherlock hangs up. John lowers the phone, squeezing it in his hand. He's pretending to himself that he's not about to leave immediately. But then a tall, lean figure appears in the doorway, and John realizes too late it's not Mrs Hudson.

'Before you go, doctor Watson, do you have a minute?'

'Jesus', John breathes through his teeth. 'Don't you ever knock?'

Mycroft steps out of the shadow, and takes the liberty of sitting in his brother's chair. He calmly carresses his umbrella, until placing it next to the fireplace where Magnussen unburdened his blatter. 'I am here as a courtesy to you.'

John huffs, hoping his sarcasm is clear in a simple manner of breathing.

'I don't approve of my brother's methods of delivering... news. We all know what happened in The Landmark. When you pushed him onto the floor of that restaurant - interesting trivia. Did you know he still had raw wounds on his back from the lashings he received in Serbia?', Mycroft asks cruelly.

 John's mouth closes. It's as if he just got slapped in the face, then shot and stabbed for good measure. Sherlock was... tortured? John refuses to show any more emotion, or ask any more questions. That's not Mycroft's story to tell, after all. But he's sure going to hunt down whoever laid a finger on Sherlock.

Though, he thinks, that might include himself. _He_ laid a finger on Sherlock. _He, too, beat him._ In the Landmark, and in the next two diners they visited.

Mycroft, feeling he has the upper hand now, pushes his fingertips together.

'And to think he did it all for – ', Mycroft cocks an eyebrow. 'You'.

'I never asked... If I had known... No. _That_ was not on _me_ ', John angrily points a finger. Sherlock should have told him about his plan to fake his death and go after dangerous criminals _by him-bloody-self_. 'And I don't have much time, so please, say what you have to say and leave.'

'I was hoping you might have deduced it already. I put your chair back, after all. What does that tell you? And the bottle of the perfume is really making it all too obvious, isn't it?'

John's jaw clenches. 'You think I'm moving back here.'

'You are.'

'Oh? It's not a choice, is it?'

'No.'

They sit in stubborn silence. Neither of them can bring himself to say it. That it was Mary. But they both know it now. A look of pity flashes across Mycroft's face.

'Sherlock is about to lure you to some dramatic showdown to demonstrate to you these... dreadful facts. I thought it wiser to warn you. Consider yourself warned.'

Before Mycroft can reach the door, John stops him.

'Mycroft...' Something is stuck in his damn throat. 'I just want to know... Why?'

Mycroft can't meet his gaze, stares at the floor. 'She's dangerous. I used to... work with her. When she appeared in your life, I brought Sherlock back to London. That's all I could do.'

He briefly glances at John.

'You could have just told me', John says, 'That I was marrying a bloody maniac.'

Mycroft looks up. 'It's all I could do', he repeats, slowly. 'And Sherlock was back. But you married her.'

He leaves.

 

***

  
John watches his wife shoot a hole in a coin. _The doctor's wife must be bored_ , Sherlock taunts. He hates them both. John watches his wife slip him a memory stick. He can barely even look at it. At her. When Sherlock is nearly dying again, he says 'John – Magnussen is all that matters now. You can trust Mary. She saved my life', but Sherlock is dying all over again, right in front of his eyes. Sherlock reaches trembling and helplessly for John, falls to the floor, and the paramedics try to restart his heart. John breathes heavily. This reminds him too much of watching his friend commit suicide.

While the paramedics are carrying Sherlock downstairs, John turns to Mary. Mrs Hudson is sobbing in the corner.

'I'm moving back in here, back to Baker Street', John tells Mary. Before she can speak, he stops her. 'No. I don't know yet, about... Later. But for now, I need to nurse Sherlock back to health. He's clearly not fit to take care of himself, that fucking cock.' He chokes out those last words. His right fist is clasping open and closed.

John swallows. Tries the tiniest smile to Mary before he leaves for the hospital, stepping on the gas and following the ambulance's trail. _Magnussen is all that matters now._

 

***

  
John refuses to leave Sherlock's hospital room anymore. After the second heartattack, they had to put him in an artificial coma. And though he's certainly not going to wake up by himself from that, or leave anymore for that matter, John can't bring himself to leave him alone any more than strictly necessary. There is a murderer out there, after all. And anyway, it's not like John can go home. Where the murderer is.

Baker Street is too empty now, too. He can't stand Mrs Hudson's well-meant but annoying little queries about his mental health. Or her crying fits, which made the one time he went back to fetch some of Sherlock's stuff and clothes feel like crossing a minefield. Actually, as an army man, he can say – _worse than a minefield._

John is present when Sherlock is slowly woken up by the doctors. He makes sure to be in Sherlock's line of vision when it happens, crouching over his hospital bed, watching those eyelashes flutter. There's something quite irresistable about a helpless detective, and it's not the fact that it makes for funny mobile videos as Lestrade would say. John puts a hand on Sherlock's wrist.

'Welcome back. I'm here, and I'm not bloody leaving', he says warmly.

Sherlock smiles, but quickly falls asleep again.

 

***

 

After a few more hours' sleep, Sherlock wakes up in a light panic, from a nightmare he immediately can't remember. He sucks in his saliva, rubs his chin clean. John jolts awake – he had drifted off while seated in a chair, head lying next to Sherlock's legs on the bed.

  
'Where's Mary?', Sherlock asks.

There's an ache in John's chest, even though he's not the one recovering from a bullet. 'Why? Do you want to thank her for so gracefully _saving your life_?'

Sherlock rolls his eyes. 'John, please. If you're going to be this sarcastic, feel free to up my morphine and put me back in a coma.'

He pushes the morphine button with a sense of drama. John automatically turns the dosage back down again. Sherlock pouts.

'Mary's at home... ' John clears his throat. 'At _her_ home, right now. I don't know. I haven't spoken to her in weeks.'

Sherlock stares at him long and thoughtfully. 'Did you investigate the contents of the memory stick?'

'No.'

'No?'

'I figured it might be a virus.'

Sherlock laughs, but his face quickly contorts with pain. He grabs at his chest.

'John, as ever, you amaze me', he says.

John thinks about taking Sherlock's hand, but opts for his wrist again. Takes his pulse. Sherlock stares at the calloused fingers feeling his cold skin, not letting go after a minute. They stay like that for a while. Surely he must know Sherlock's pulse by now. Though the longer they sit like that, the quicker Sherlock's heart beats, of course. New data must be acquired.

'I know she didn't save your life', John says quietly. 'She tried to kill you. Why?'

Sherlock swallows hard. This conversation has been long overdue.

'I'm not... sure yet. I know she's a highly trained spy. I know she is an assassin, she wasn't lying about that. But I don't think the truth is on that memory stick either.'

'Why?'

'She needs to have the upper hand. As a matter of fact, she does.'

Sherlock looks up at John. 'You have to forgive her', Sherlock says, coolly. John releases his fingers immediately from his wrist and paces to the window.

'Never. Fuck. No.'

'She's pregnant with your baby.' He doesn't add: _if it's even yours_. It's John's. 'It's all that matters now.'

'She watched me mourn. She... came into my life after I was.... You were dead, Sherlock. I was living with it, but in a way, slowly dying with it. She came into my life and gained my trust and nursed me back to... something. She saw, Sherlock, first-hand what it did to me, losing you. She saw. And she still shot you.'

Sherlock mouth opens, but nothing comes out. He's blinking rapidly. He still can't deal with being reminded of that time he spent 'playing dead'. He can't tell John how much it hurt to be away from him for so long. He thought it would take less time. He kept on finding new links in Moriarty's network. But he didn't spend a day without thinking about John. He wrote so many letters, during that time, but never sent them. He sewed them into his long coat, hoping that if they found his dead body, the coat would get sent to John, and he would – he would know some kind of truth. At least. At last.

'She tried to kill you, Sherlock. Why would she even believe I would ever forgive her for that?'

Sherlock pushes his fingertips together. 'Two things, John. Arrogance, and time. She's arrogant enough to believe what I told her: that I think she didn't mean to kill me, and that she's the best thing to ever happen to you. And then there's time. You have to nurse me back to health, in Baker Street. We'll have time to come up with a plan by Christmas.'

'And then what?'

Sherlock smiles. 'I told you. Magnussen.' He relaxes back into his pillow, and yawns. Sleep is taking over. But it's ok. He's safe now.

  
  
***

  
  
Because John is a doctor, he's allowed to take Sherlock home a lot sooner than any other patient would have been discharged. It also helps that the nurses are all too happy to throw the man out. They'd all gotten an official warning after Sherlock escaped the hospital only to be brought back in an ambulance suffering another heartattack. Neither did they like his constant deductions about their love life while they were rinsing his wounds. Talk about spongebaths from hell. So when he finally leaves, no tears are shed, no hugs given. John looks at the nurses apologetically.

Getting Sherlock up the stairs of 221B by himself, however, is a pain in the ass. John has a hard time admitting it, but he's not as fit as during his days in the army, and having a whining detective to support on his bad shoulder is not helping. He's out of breath by the time they reach the top of the stairs.

'Careful, John', Sherlock says indignantly while John is rubbing his shoulder. That impossible princess now quite effortlessly walks to the sofa and lies down. John takes a sarcastic bow, glares at his friend and runs back downstairs to fetch his suitcase, which the nurses had already neatly packed a whole two days before Sherlock was officially discharged. They clearly couldn't wait.

John slides the suitcase onto the table and starts unpacking. Clean and dirty socks and underwear, all mixed together, so that's all going back into the washing machine. Two dressing gowns, neatly folded yet somewhat smelly. A toothbrush, one pair of pajamas, Sherlock's expensive shampoo. John arranges it all on the table. A pot of wax. A fancy shaving kit – past Christmas gift that finally got a use. And then, at the bottom – John draws in air. He hesitates. Sherlock's head perks up from the sofa.

The bottom of the suitcase has a pile of newspapers on it. _Shag-a-lot-Holmes. Seven times a night in Baker Street. He made me wear the hat._ John grabs them and slams them down on the table, harder than he intended to. Then he takes the clothes and heads straight for the bathroom.

'John?'

John opens the door of the washing machine and throws the clothes in there. A socks drops to the floor. John fetches it, throws it in with the rest, cursing at an innocent piece of fabric succumbing to gravity. He closes the machine door. _Better wait for a bigger pile before starting a new cycle_ , he thinks.

'John?', Sherlock asks from the living room. He sounds concerned

John sighs. He's not ready to go serve prince Sherlock just yet. He reaches for the expensive fabric softener. Sherlock likes his dressing gowns impeccably cared for. He opts for the 'eco cycle' though, lowering his guilt about the environment.

When he finally has no choice but to go back into the living room, Sherlock is quietly standing at the table, his hand touching the newspapers. There's a soft, sad frown between his eyebrows.

'You shouldn't be up, you know. I barely even convinced the doctors I could take care of you myself. So. Sit', John orders Sherlock.

'My heart is fine, John.'

'I know it's _completely_ fine', John snaps, and he grabs the newspapers from underneath Sherlock's fingers. He throws the papers onto the unlit fireplace.

'That's not going to burn... Too much paper', Sherlock says. He quickly shuts up when he catches John's gaze. Shrugs as if to say: _only trying to help_.

John dashes into the kitchen and boils water. No one in the world has ever boiled water so angrily. Yet the tea he serves comes with a supplementary cookie. Sherlock is ill, after all. Needs taken care of.

Sherlock slowly sips his Earl Grey on the sofa, while studying John. He's in his old chair by the fireplace, near the newspapers. Ostensibly ignoring them. _Did John move the chair back himself_ , Sherlock wonders.

'Why does it bother you so much? Those papers?'

'It doesn't. They don't. Shut up.'

John claws at the armrests. They're both quiet for a while, lost in their own line of thinking.

'John, I –'

' _Why,_ Sherlock? I mean... You were only interested in Magnussen. I know Janine seems to be fine with it, and she's sure benefitting from it, but... I think what you did was cruel. Using her like... like that.'

Sherlock's lips part in surprise. He's looking impossibly gorgeous in his soft dressing gown, with those cheekbones and his messy hair, he looks so innocent, but John has to remind himself how dangerous it is to think of Sherlock as a beautiful, innocent creature. He's not. These newspapers are the proof of that, if anything.

'How can you think that?', Sherlock asks, spitting each word out like dirt.

'You _used_ her. For a _case_.'

' _She_ doesn't care', Sherlock points to the papers. His cheeks are flushed. 'Why should _you_? Care?'

'Because', John points his finger at him. 'I'm your friend. But it's hard... Being friends with... that.' He gestures toward the papers in the fireplace.

Sherlock looks wounded. 'Well, it's hard being friends with someone who believes only the worst from you that he reads in the bloody newspapers!', he shouts.

That shuts John up. They have a staring contest. Sherlock takes a bite from his cookie, then seems to examine every crumb with his tongue. John swirls his tea in his mouth. 'Right', he finally says, and goes up to his room.

After a while, Sherlock stumbles to the fireplace, removes the papers and lights a fire. He then rips the articles about him and Janine to shreds, and throws them into the flames. The crackling is unbearably loud in the quiet of the appartment.

 

***

 

After Lady Smallwood's husband kills himself – a direct result of her not giving into Magnussen's blackmail – a secret meeting is set up. It's three days before Christmas. Sherlock is almost fully healed – outwardly at least. He often wakes up from nightmares of Mary shooting John, and Sherlock being unable to stop it. Sometimes he's restrained. Sometimes he's the one holding the gun.

They meet in an impressive government building, where almost all the walls are made of glass. _Not very good for conspiring_ , John notes. But then Sherlock and John are lead into a tiny windowless room – the walls are thick and smell of fresh paint. There's a tiny, square table and four chairs surrounding it. No mirrors in the room, either. It's a place of privacy.

Mycroft, Lady Smallwood, Sherlock and John sit down.

'What we're about to discuss, is classified beyond top secret. Once beyond these walls, you must never speak of it. Only those within this room – code names Antarctica, Norbury, Porlock and Love – will ever know the whole truth.'

'Drop the dramatics, _Mycroft_ ', Sherlock says, snacking on ginger nuts. Mycroft shoots him a look.

' _Antarctica_ ', he glares. Sherlock rolls his eyes at him.

'Wait... am I... Love?' John wonders out loud.

'I'm Love', Lady Smallwood replies. 'Casual sexism among high-ranking government officials. Anyway, shall we begin? We all know what we're here for. The problem of the Black Pearl.'

'You mean Mary', Sherlock says dryly.

'We used to know her as the Black Pearl of the Borgias', Lady Smallwood says. 'We employed her services many times. But after an operation went wrong, she went rogue. We lost track of her for a while. Until she reappeared in London. Now, her cover's been blown, and she's very unpredictable and very, very lethal.'

'We already know all this. Why have this meeting now?', John asks.

'Because my husband is dead', Lady Smallwood says. The room is quiet, save for Sherlock awkwardly biting down on a ginger nut. 'In 1982, my husband corresponded with a young woman named Helen. It was before I knew him. The letters were lively, loving. Explicit. There were... pictures. Helen Katherine Driscoll was fifteen years old at the time.'

'Magnussen has the letters, that's why you came to me', Sherlock says, looking bored.

'Yes', Lady Smallwood agrees. 'But last week, Magnussen printed the letters in his newspapers. In the ensuing scandal, my husband committed suicide.' There is a short pause. 'You, however, know Helen Katherine Driscoll as Mary Morstan.'

Sherlock almost chokes on a nut.

'It's one of her many aliases', Lady Smallwood says. 'She grew up troubled. Even back then she was already consorting with the wrong kind of crowd. My husband was from a well-off family. She smelled money, I suppose.'

She's quiet now. 'Antarctica and I have come up with a plan. Magnussen, of course, is too powerful to touch. He's a public figure. But I think we are making a strong case against him via the hearings. That's why he's nervous, that's why he printed the letters. We can and will get him in jail.'

She turns to John. 'Your wife, however, must die.'

John jumps up, his chair crashes to the floor. 'My _wife_ is pregnant. With my baby.'

Lady Smallwood doesn't even blink. Mycroft sucks in air. 'A lot of women die in childbirth, Norbury', he says, coldly.

'No. Simply... No', John points his finger. 'I will not be a part of this. I swore, as a military man, to serve this country and I will. But as a doctor, I cannot condone this.'

'You've killed before', Mycroft lifts his eyebrows in surprise. 'The cab driver turned serial killer, for example.'

'That was different.' John glances at Sherlock. 'There was imminent danger.'

'Your child is in imminent danger', Mycroft says.

'No. Mary would never hurt her own child.'

'But she might disappear. With the child. What will you do then?' Mycroft stares John down. He's standing there, shoulders tense as if bracing for impact, yet defeated.

'Mycroft', Sherlock says, making a point to ignore the secret codenames. 'Give us two weeks to solve the problem on our own terms. Then you can do all the killing you want.' He gets up from his chair, indicating the meeting is over. 'And I do not understand why you will kill Mary, but not Magnussen. What does he have on you?'

With an annoyed sigh, Mycroft drops his gaze. He swallows. 'Fine then. You get one week.'

John is still unmoving, but Sherlock gently grabs him by the arm and guides him out the room. In the cab, John is quiet all the way back to Baker Street. These past few months, Sherlock and him have grown closer and closer. Changing his dressing, cleaning his wound, helping him get dressed, it has all been almost... intimate. He knows he will have to 'forgive' Mary to keep her quiet until the baby is born. Sherlock and John have discussed this endlessly. John will have to just bite the bullet, as it were.

Because once the baby is safe, they can get John and the child out. For that, they will need sufficient evidence that Mary is a murderer who belongs in jail. Having the surveillance tapes from the night Sherlock got shot, would help. Having a whole _file_ on Mary's past as an assassin, would be invaluable. A good thing then, that they know someone who has one.

 

***

  
  
It turns out, of course, Magnussen doesn't have any tangible incriminating files on Mary. It's all stored in his head. He's in media. He prints what he wants (John briefly thinks back about those _Shag-a-lot_ -headlines). They can't put Mary in jail. In fact, both John and Sherlock are going to jail for trying to sell state secrets to a dispicable human being.

From jail they can't protect the unborn child. Also, Magnussen flicks John's face. So Sherlock shoots him.

'Give my love to Mary', Sherlock dramatically shouts at John, helicopters roaring in the background. John is shocked and confused. Keeping his hands in the air. Cursing. Inside and out.

Mycroft puts his little brother on a plane, to die in some faraway country. They say goodbye. Sherlock jokes about his name being a girl's name. That it could work. _Sherlock Watson._ John Watson dies a thousand deaths, but he shakes his friend's hand, like a soldier. He watches the plane take off, while holding Mary's hand, feeling nauseous.

At that very moment, Moriarty's face appears across television screens all over the country. _Did you miss me?_

And when that wretched plane, that holds Sherlock and John's whole life in it, turns around, only then John realises what those words meant: 'Give my love to Mary'.

Give my Love to Mary. Love. Lady Smallwood's code name. Plan B.

Mary has to die.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- The translation to the French folk song 'Claire de la Lune' that I quoted, is 'Open your door for the God of Love... But I know that the door has shut itself on them'. I like the idea of Mary singing it to John on their wedding day somehow :)
> 
> \- Mary as the Driscoll girl requires perhaps a slight suspension of disbelief. Still more believable than John forgiving Mary for shooting Sherlock in the chest ;)


	2. The Six Thatchers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'The Six Thatchers'? We saw that story unfold onscreen. We saw Mary get shot "like in the movies", with a "big spurt of blood and you fall backwards". But was that what really happened? No, the answer is no. You should know this by now, the second chapter ;)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your kudos, encouragements, comments, ... They've been getting me through writing this new chapter, and put a smile on my face every day since last week.
> 
> There will be no Thatcher busts in this chapter. The Six Thatchers is a story that's already on the blog. It's about a guy murdering his lover, and it ends with Sherlock insisting he would have gotten away with it. :)

**JOHNWATSONBLOG.CO.UK**

 

\-- new update --  
11th May

**Title: 221Back!**

And we're back! Sorry I haven't updated the blog for such a long time but things have been very busy. (…) I thought I'd spent the last few years being a Dad to Sherlock, but it really doesn't compare. The baby runs all our lives. (Maybe not THAT different to Sherlock then!). If I'm not changing nappies, I'm buying nappies. I've fought in Afghanistan and my best friend once faked his own death but none of that compares to the experience of being a Dad. It's terrifying and amazing and the biggest adventure I've ever been on.

I also have some bad news, I'm sad to say. Mary, my wife, the woman I was very happily married to, has died. Sherlock had this case he was sticking his nose into, running after some smashed busts, because apparently smashing art personally affronts him now. Or maybe he wanted to thank the person who destroyed Thatcher's face over and over. He also thought there was going to be some valuable pearl inside one of those busts. None of that. There was a memory stick however, one that secret spies keep all their personal and incriminating information on, just in case, you know, they need to blackmail each other.

Long story short, there was a loose thread in the world, and Sherlock pulled it. Then a secretary tried to shoot him. Mary jumped in front of the bullet. Big spurt of blood, she fell backwards and died in my arms. I don't think I can ever forgive him. So I guess 'Johnwatsonblog.co.uk' is now really about me, John Watson. Sorry if that disappoints you, dear reader. Sherlock has his own website if you're ever interested in 243 types of tobacco ash. I don't give a shit anymore.

 

**REALITY**

 

_Did you miss me? Did you miss me? Did you miss me?_

Moriarty's video plays on a loop on a bright screen in a darkened kitchen. Next to it on the table, a cup of untouched tea has gone cold. Mycroft Holmes sighs deeply, pushes his laptop closed and rubs his chin, lost in thought. Behind him, a dark figure puts his hands on his shoulders.

'Why did you do it?', Greg Lestrade asks, rubbing his thumbs up and down Mycroft's neck.

Mycroft's shoulders tense, and he quickly gets up, shakes himself loose. He picks up the cup of tea, gulps the cold milky substance down and rinses the fragile porcelain carefully in the sink, in feigned concentration. On the fridge, next to magnets hugging take-away menus, a post-it with the number '13th' hangs. On the 13th of this month, they'll be celebrating their one year anniversary. However he managed to keep this relationship hidden from Sherlock, it still stuns him. The man was very occupied with planning the wedding, of course. And after that, recovering from a bullet. And then, planning a murder. As you do.

'I had no choice, my dear.' Mycroft turns around. Greg Lestrade cocks an eyebrow. When Mycroft calls him 'dear', all alarm bells go off – he's been bad.

'I could not _actually_ send my little brother on that undercover mission in Eastern Europe. It would have killed him in less than six months', Mycroft says. He sucks in his breath through his teeth. Even though he plays the secret service like a puppeteer, he tries to lie as little as he has to, to his lover, it's one indulgence he'll allow himself. 'Three, actually.'

Greg's jumper is messy. Mycroft doesn't like mess. He closes his eyes and sniffs indignantly.

'Look, I get it, I really do', Greg says. 'But you got yourself into a lot of trouble by making this Moriarty video –'

'It was the _only_ way the government would –', Mycroft protests.

'Making this video', Lestrade repeats louder. 'Making this _Moriarty_ video yourself can get you fired, Mike. And they're gonna find out the truth when bloody Moriarty doesn't actually _do_ anything because he's a sodding _corpse_.'

Mycroft winces. He opens his mouth, then slowly closes it again, shifts his feet. Some truths are best kept unspoken, he has learned in his career.

'Where did you get his image anyway?', Lestrade asks.

All Mycroft can do is stare at his feet, like a scolded schoolboy being called into the principal's office. He takes his umbrella and rubs the handle, it's like a safety blanket to him. Lestrade stares at it with a renewed interest.

'I guess the real question is', Lestrade says. 'Do you deserve a little punishment?'

Mycroft's gaze shoots up. He nods, trying hard not to smile.

  
  
***

  
  
'Pull _over_!' Mary yells like a fury risen from the ashes. She's huge, she's puffing in the back of a car, and John is driving. Which means Sherlock is _on duty_ , sitting next to a heavily pregnant, insanely dangerous woman in labour. She already tried to kill him once and might try it again if they don't give her a sedative fast. She slams his face into the window once more – Sherlock is not sure this is strictly necessary.

These past few months, they've tensely worked together on occasion, never quite leaving Mary alone in case she ran off now that her cover has been blown. John moved back in with her after Christmas. He doesn't talk much about it. Sherlock tries not to deduce too much. But he can't help it, sometimes. He reads the guilt in John's eyes, and knows they probably fell asleep spooning lovingly. Or... No. Sherlock won't allow his thoughts to go anywhere near there. It's hard enough to imagine John rubbing Mary's swollen feet, or making her dinner, or even so much as holding her hand while they go for an ultrasound. And really, it's quite brave of John. He has taken it all in stride. The only reason he has moved back in with her, is to keep an eye on her until the baby is born. Once his daughter is safe, they can make Mary disappear. _Forever_ , Sherlock hopes.

John pulls into the hospital parking lot, speeds past several warning signs and violently brakes at the emergency entrance. Several nurses and doctors come running immediately and John throws open the passenger's door. As Mary exits, she pulls Sherlock's curls just one more time, viciously. Sherlock quickly follows after her, exchanging an exhausted look with John, as she yells at people to 'bring her an epidural _or else_ '.

Only two hours later, the four of them are already in a hospital room. Last time Sherlock was here, he was recovering from a bullet wound. Now he stares out the window while his murderer smiles as the sedative has kicked in – too late for the actual childbirth, but providing bliss right now. In a large chair next to her, John is carefully holding his newborn baby girl. Sherlock turns toward him, a serious frown on his face as John's tired, beautiful features are contorted with pride and emotion. John closes his mouth as their eyes lock. They both know it. Because it's true, what Lady Smallwood said: if they want everyone else to be safe, Mary has to die. This is hardly a birth. It's a funeral.

 

***

  
Codenames Love, Antarctica, Norbury and Porlock are seated along four equal sides of the table. Except Norbury is cradling a baby: codename Langdale, named after rose water extract. Langdale is, in exceedingly impressive fashion, bombing Norbury's lap with a series of farts.

John hands her over to Sherlock. They're in _his_ kitchen, after all, and he's her godfather. He should accept Rosie with flaws and all. 'She's having a fart attack', John says.

Sherlock begrudgingly accepts the child, and shoots John a poisonous look. Rosie, however, melts it right off his face as Sherlock carefully straps her into the carrycot next to him. He looks at her apologetically. Time to discuss serious business. _The murder of your mother._

'This is _not_ an appropriate place for this meeting.' Mycroft pulls a disgusted face and shoots a crumb off the kitchen table with his thumb. It lands on a pile of newspapers, that have articles neatly cut out. Mycroft deduces quickly it's best not to mention those.

'It's all we could manage without _his wife_ becoming suspicious', Sherlock says. He knows _his wife_ is a rather poisonous jab, as he shouldn't blame John for not walking out on her already. This was the plan they came up with together, after all, and John is just following it through. But why does it feel like John has been hollowing him out like he’s an almost dead tree giving in to the release of an axe?

Sherlock gestures to a pile of grocery bags in the corner, still shuddering at his memory of visiting _Sainsbury's_ of all places. 'John told Mary he has taken Rosie to do grocery shopping. There's moderate to heavy traffic, and people have just finished work so all the evil old ladies have gone to the supermarket as well, clogging up cashiers' lines. We have approximately forty-four minutes.' Short pause. 'Forty-three.'

Lady Smallwood clears her throat. 'We better get on with it, then. Now that Langdale is born, we will look out for her safety. She's constantly monitored. However, we need a plan to eliminate Mary, and we better do it quickly.'

She's right. Mary has already been acting rather suspiciously. Once, when John, Sherlock and Rosie were on a case, they rang the doorbell to a hacker's house and Mary appeared. She'd already introduced herself as part of the team and wriggled herself between them, like a hound tracking the smell of a murder. _Its own murder._

Lady Smallwood drops a file onto the table. It's pale brown, rather thick and has a large X on it.

'Is this **_the_** X-file?', Sherlock asks.

Mycroft shoots him a look. 'That, brother dear, is the government's file of Ajay, a highly trained and skilled mercenary who used to work with us, and was a close colleague of Mary's.'

' _Colleague_ ', John scoffs. As if she were a secretary or a nurse and had something as normal and mundaine as colleagues.

'That is, until she betrayed him in Tbilisi', Mycroft continues. 'Many innocent people died. Ever since then, Ajay has spiraled. We had to let him go. He holds a big grudge for Mary.'

John just stares at him. He doesn't really want to know anything more about Mary's dark past. She shot Sherlock – that's more than enough. He glances at Rosie. Will she be like her mother at all? How much is nature, how much is nurture? Rosie's nodding off, unaware of the bad in this world, unaware of the beautiful.

'You want us to track him down and put him onto Mary's scent', Sherlock says. His lip twitches. 'Not us. _Me._ ' The thought of leaving John behind – with Mary – is almost too much to even entertain. It's not safe. And what if he falls back in love with her again, confused by all these fatherly emotions, his longing for a normal family? Sherlock swallows hard.

'It will be much cleaner this way', Lady Smallwood says. 'If Ajay is the one to pull the trigger.'

She is right, of course, Sherlock figures. How would John feel about Sherlock, if he was the one to kill Mary? It's the mother of his child, after all.

'How do we know he won't go after John and Rosie?' he says, ignoring all codenames as per usual. 

'He won't. He has... morals', Mycroft says disdainfully. Sherlock is not sure if his big brother disapproves of _having_ morals, or their absence. 'And we already have him tracked down, as we've always kept a wary eye on him. Our friend Ajay was based in different countries for a while. Norddal in Norway, Kielbaski in Poland, he spent quite some time in Morocco, and in recent years he laid low in Bagdad. Now he lives in Eastern Europe. All you have to do is fly there and use your, eh, people skills to persuade him to go after Mary. Please manage to do so without him wanting to strangle _you_ first. Operation East Wind is go.'

Mycroft throws a blue envelope toward Sherlock, who grabs it with a cold mask on his face. Inside is an airplane ticket. Destination: Samara.

 

***

  
Three days later, Sherlock lies in his bed, wide awake. His plane leaves the next morning, but his mind refuses to grant him the sleep he so desperately needs. 221B is silent and alarmingly clean. Of his own doing, however. He's been slowly cleaning up, moving all dangerous equipment to 221C – Mrs. Hudson was kind enough to rent it out to him, too – just in case John and Rosie want to move in here. Why would John want to stay in his and Mary's house, anyway? Doesn't it hold only bad memories? He chastises himself for _hoping_. A waste of time.

He turns to his side and checks the clock on his phone. It's 2:41 AM. Alright. It's at least an update from 2:39 AM, when he last checked. It counts as progress.

Sherlock grabs his phone and steps out of bed. He goes to the living room to sit down in his thinking chair, knees pulled up, a blanket wrapped around his lean body. Hesitantly, he starts typing. Should he? He refuses to answer that question to himself, or at least, not until after he's already pressed 'send'.

 

_It's been too long._

 

His heart is beating rapidly. It's not like he's going to be up anyway, he reasons. Should they even be texting each other? He could be risking everything. But by god – does he miss John.

The screen lights up with a swift reply.

 

_I know. Sorry._

 

This is bad. This is very bad. Sherlock smiles.

 

_Miss you._

 

Did he really just send that? Sherlock curses himself for being a fool, so easily persuaded into something resembling _sentiment_ just because he's about to fly away to meet a former assassin (his run-ins with former assassins haven't been very successful so far).

After a few moments, a reply.

 

_You're up late._

 

Hm. Is John deflecting? _Or early_ , Sherlock quickly retorts. He sighs into the silent emptiness of the apartment. The room agrees.

 

 _Night owl?_ John asks.

 

 _Vampire_ , Sherlock's fingertips harass the screen. He knows John secretly loves to read vampire fiction. Grinning, he presses send.

John's reply is short, but reassuring.

 

_:)_

 

And Sherlock spends the next hour silently hoping for another message, just staring at the wall. Because there, in faded paint, is the yellow face that took, admittedly, some abuse, but is just like the one in the text message. A spray-painted smiley face. _It's John. It's always been John._

 

***

 

On the plane to Samara, Sherlock ponders the irony. Not too long ago, he was sent on a suicide mission by his own brother to Eastern Europe, then saved because of the mysterious Moriarty video message, and now he's on a plane heading to the East again. Does Russia count as Eastern Europe, or is it considered part of Asia? Sherlock has deleted that sort of useless geographical information. Whatever it may be, the East Wind is not coming; he's traveling to meet it head-first. He has an appointment in Samara, and hopefully, Mary will meet her faith.

During the taxi ride through the city of Samara, Sherlock fondles the red buttonhole of his coat. Safely sewn inside his coat are still the letters he wrote to John while undercover – painful truths, hidden in plain sight. He should probably throw them away, but can't let himself. He could still die, here in this strange country for example, and the letters could be found by John. They are little testaments that Sherlock was once alive, with a beating heart, and for whom it was beating. Sherlock rests his head against the window and closes his eyes briefly. He doesn't admire the Grigoriy Zasekin monument, pays no mind to the weak call of the Volga river. He has turned off his phone – this city in the heart of conservative Russia feels unwelcoming and dangerous.

Near Troitskiy market, after asking directions from a merchant's young son, Sherlock heads inside a dark alley and knocks on the door of an old Soviet style building. He could easily break in – but there is nothing of value to be found, here, anyway, except the man who opens the door.

Ajay is a handsome man with a Y-shaped scar on his cheek, and a black hoodie. He narrows his eyes. 'что ты хочешь?', he asks, in a hostile tone. Sherlock raises his hands, a universal sign that says: _I am not armed._

'I am the enemy of your enemy', the detective says, rather dramatically, and smiles with one corner of his mouth. 'I know the whereabouts of the Black Pearl.'

Ajay looks surprised, then grabs Sherlock's scarf and pulls him inside. 'Come in, English friend.'

Sherlock sits on a light brown sofa while Ajay heats water for tea. The small table is wooden, the curtains are dirty, oddly patterned pink. On the wall, there is a framed black and white picture of Margaret Thatcher meeting Mikhail Gorbachev. But the glass hasn't been dusted in a long time, so it's probably a remnant of the last renter. There are unopened boxes in the corner. Ajay has only recently moved here, in a hurry — and he's prepared to leave at a moment's notice, Sherlock makes a mental note.

Ajay puts down two steaming cups. 'You know her. You do, don't you? You know the bitch.'

'You're not beating around the bush, are you', Sherlock asks, buying for time as he's not sure to trust this tea or not. 'She goes by the name of Mary now.'

'She betrayed me; betrayed us all', Ajay says.

'Join the club.' Sherlock carefully tongues his tea, then puts down the cup without drinking.

'She's a dead woman walking', Ajay says.

'What happened in Georgia?', Sherlock enquires. He listens to Ajay's story. How they were supposed to free hostages in the embassy. But they were betrayed, by Mary, who had been a double agent for quite some time by then. Ajay was tortured, but survived. His captors told him, as they were tearing into him, about _the English woman_ who had betrayed him. Sherlock shivers. Torture is something he knows all too well, since his two year undercover mission dismantling Moriarty's network. It's not something he willingly gets reminded of. He tries to concentrate. _Stay in the room_ , he urges himself. _Concentrate on the teacups, on the pink curtains, on the picture of Margaret Thatcher. You are here_ , he reminds himself. _Not in Serbia._ But the talk of torture is triggering, and Sherlock starts spacing out. He acts weird, and Ajay grows suspicious.

'Who are you?', Ajay suddenly asks, throwing down his cup. It bruises, scars, but doesn't break.

'My name is Sherlock Holmes.'

'Are you a policeman?'

'No. Not a policeman.' Sherlock's shoulders grow tense. Why did he turn off his phone? But then again, who would he call now? Ajay is a traumatised man with a short temper. _The scar on his cheek isn't even from the torture in Tbilisi._ All the deductions come at once now. _Two older brothers, no, three, grew up with an abusive father, hidden tattoo on his right rib cage, hasn't had a meal in three days, chronic smoker, bad sleeper. And rapidly coming to all the wrong conclusions._

'Listen', Sherlock says, 'Whatever you think now, we can talk about this. We can work it out.'

Ajay grabs him by the collar. He's unexpectedly strong – the muscle power of a man who has nothing else to do but push-ups while fantasizing about revenge. Why did Mycroft send him here? This man is too unpredictable to use as a pawn in this murderous chess game. Ajay whips out a gun but Sherlock immediately hits it so it crashes to the ground, out of reach. He follows this up with a punch in Ajay's face.

'Sorry about that', Sherlock huffs while struggling with Ajay, 'Self defense. Could we resume our conversation over a fresh cuppa?'

Ajay headbutts him in response and Sherlock flies backwards, but holds his balance. He tries to punch his attacker, but Ajay easily avoids him and punches him between the ribs. Sherlock doubles over in pain, but uses the momentum to slide underneath Ajay's arm and dish out a backwards elbow blow to the face. They fight throughout the house, thrashing old Soviet style furniture, kicking over a bucket of water, both collecting cuts and bruises left and right. Ajay is slowly working Sherlock toward the door, until the detective falls backwards through it, onto the street. A heavily panting Ajay stands in the doorway, eyes wide in accusation.

'Tell me about your boss', Ajay demands, 'Moriarty!'

Sherlock's mouth falls open. 'What?'

At that exact moment, several gun shots ring and Ajay drops down in his doorway.

'No, no!' Sherlock screams, and rushes to the man. He bends down over his body, but it's too late, Ajay is dead. Wide-eyed, Sherlock looks over his shoulder. Nobody. There are some high windows in the building across the street, so maybe the shooter was there. It can't have been Mary, she's back in England. Maybe someone who works with Mary? Maybe a random person with a grudge toward Ajay? No, though the man certainly had enemies, it's too much of a coincidence. This must be Mary's work. Sherlock's breath hitches. That means John, who is at home with Mary now, is no longer safe. Sherlock lets go of Ajay's lifeless body and starts running toward the market place, meanwhile pushing the start-up button on his phone.

 

***

  
  
Mycroft sits in a large majestic chair in his living room, in front of six screens displaying security camera footage of places across London. He pushes a few buttons on a switchboard panel, alternating between different point of views.

'No, Sherlock, calm down, nothing has happened', he tells his brother on speaker phone. Sherlock is in a blind panic. Their contact is dead, apparently. Mycroft sighs. He feared as much. 'Yes, I am checking on their whereabouts right now. As I said, John and Rosie are safely at home while Mary is attending her bi-weekly yoga class.'

Sherlock sounds out of breath, exhausted. Why must he run? As if he's not about to go wait in an airport for a few hours. 'Send your men, Mycroft. Send them! She's onto us.'

On one of the smaller screens, Mary is doing the downward dog on a bright yellow yoga mat. Her pants creep up between – ugh – _womanly folds_. Mycroft hopes he can soon repress the memory of _that_ image. 'She's really not, brother. And either way, I am employing a lot of government resources already to keep an eye on your friends. To indulge you. As I have told you many times before, caring is not an advantage. Now go catch a plane, Sherlock.'

He closes the call and puts his phone away. He can almost hear Sherlock's frustrated snarl coming from Russia. He gets up and walks into his bedroom, straight to his closet. It holds around twenty-five stiff suits in various shades of blue and grey, and a drawer compartment for ties, tie pins and cufflinks. Behind the third suit from the left, he pushes a hidden button, and the suit wall starts turning, slowly unveiling a hidden space behind his closet. He loves this sort of James Bond-style spy stuff. He likes to imagine that, just like his umbrella harbors a hidden sword and gun, he himself holds hidden layers that one can discover and peel off. However, what's behind the closet is about as far from James Bond as can be, he realizes as he drops his chin in shame to stare at his polished gentleman shoes.

 

***

  
An uneventful week later, Sherlock is wearing his silky blue dressing gown in 221B while playing the violin. His bruises have started healing, he almost feels relaxed while playing his beloved instrument. But then Sherlock's back stiffens when John pushes the door open, carrying Rosie in a carrycot. The bags under his eyes are more pronounced, his face creased with worry. It hurts Sherlock to see his friend in such a state. It hurts Sherlock to know Rosie is bonding with Mary, not only because she's a psychopath, but also because Rosie will surely feel a sense of loss when she's taken away from her.

'Mary is at her yoga class', John says. 'We thought we'd drop by for a visit.'

'You're always welcome here, John', the detective says as he awkwardly puts his violin in its case. He fishes a brand new chewy toy out of his dressing gown pocket, and hands it to his godchild. She immediately launches it into his face. Sherlock sighs warmly and sits down in his chair, opposite John.

'I should have handled Ajay differently', Sherlock says.

John waves his hand dismissively. 'One less rogue assassin in the world. And it wasn't fair what we were asking him to do, anyway. This is _our_ mess. There will be another way.'

He bites the insides of his cheek as they sit in silence for a while. He hasn't come here to just have a chat and talk about the weather, and he's sick of talking about Mary. He deals with her all day and all night long, after all, worrying that, if he falls asleep, she'll run off with Rosie, and feeling guilty about the little sleep he can manage. He wants a little refuge from Mary to have a conversation with Sherlock that's been long overdue. But he's not sure how to breach the subject he wants to delve into. Best to just rip off the bandaid, then. 'Sherlock...'

Sherlock looks up. 'Yes?'

'Something's been bothering me.'

 _Uh oh._ What is this nonsense, Sherlock wonders nervously. Is this about the _Miss you_ text message? 'Try not to give yourself a headache by _thinking_ , John.'

John scrapes his nails across the seams of his jeans, then rests his hands on his knees, willing them to stay still. 'After you were shot, Mycroft mentioned something. It's about your time undercover. I realise we never talked about this – well. He mentioned you were... hurt.'

Sherlock's lips part in surprise, and he grows cold all over his body. This is even worse than the text message conversation.

'God, John. How many times have I told you? My body is just transport. I don't care what happens to it, and neither should you', he says coolly, hoping John will drop the topic.

John swallows. 'I don't mean to pry –'

'You are.'

'But it's best to talk about this. I learned that from Ella. I can stay, you can talk to me. That's what people are supposed to do: work things through. And I know you've been having recurring dreams. Nightmares. I noticed as much when I was by your side in the hospital room.' John carefully looks up. 'Are they about... when you were.... when they.... The beatings?'

 _God_ , Sherlock has never hoped so hard for Rosie to poop her diaper, to put an end to this dreadful conversational diarrhea. 'Nightmares are just a tedious side-effect of the over-activation of the amygdala during REM sleep. Assigning any sort of meaning to it, is frankly, something I would put above even you.'

John's shoulders drop, but he is determined to wade through Sherlock's resistance. 'After I came back from Afghanistan, I frequently had nightmares about it. I know a thing or two about PTSD, Sherlock. I know this might come as a shock to you, but _I_ might be able to help _you_ understand things.'

'You don't make it easy, do you', Sherlock lashes out.

'What d'you mean?', John asks, keeping his features neutral and open.

'Well, being so... perfect', Sherlock spits out the last word in contempt. He leans forward, eyes blazing. 'Do you want to know why we never talked about Serbia? Because you _never asked_. And yes, when I came back from the dead, I could have chosen to tell you... differently. I miscalculated. But I figured, after the dust had settled, you'd eventually ask me what exactly happened during my... exile.' 

Sherlock leans back into his chair, not quite finished. 'I will grant you, you were grieving my death, and as I have told you many times before, I am sorry about that. But during those years, at least you were _safe_. You didn't have to constantly hide who you were, and infiltrate dangerous criminal organisations, and you were safe from sleeping on the streets, from capture and vicious beatings and surprisingly creative _torture techniques_ and … And you were.... not all alone.'

Sherlock chokes. John looks as if he's just been slapped. Sherlock closes his mouth. He has clearly overstepped, said too much. John grieved his death for two years, after all. Sherlock killed himself in front of him. He should probably be more aware of John's feelings, the detective figures.

At that moment, both their cellphones ping with text messages. Sherlock's message reads: _The curtain rises. The last act. It's not over._ _MH_ , while John's just says: _London Aquarium. Come immediately. MH_.

'Mycroft', Sherlock says. 'But from an unknown number. A burner phone?'

John seemed lost in thought, but now his head perks up. 'We should go', he says. They both head toward the door, then freeze. Rosie is still sitting in her carrycot, cooing and blowing adorable saliva bubbles.

'Well, no, we can't just go', Sherlock says, and hesitates.

'Um, you go', John says. 'I'll come as soon as I've found a babysitter. Mrs Hudson. If she's in. Or Molly. Or the special agent who's posted outside your house? I'll slip him a tenner.'

Sherlock grins. 'We should both wait until we've found a sitter.'

'No, you know that's not going to happen', John says. 'If there's more to this case, you're the one who needs to see it.'

Sherlock nods. He takes off his dressing gown and straightens his shirt underneath. 'I'll see you at the aquarium then. Come as fast as possible...' Short pause. 'Did you bring your gun?'

John looks shocked. 'Why would I bring my gun on a stroll with Rosie?'

'Where is it?'

'In the left pocket of my coat, you twat.'

 

***

While Sherlock walks through the aquarium's beautiful blue-lit corridors at closing time, he admires the lion's mane jellyfish. A little further, a shark throws a large shadow in the glass tunnels. Sherlock shivers. He reaches an enclosed area with benches, where people can rest, admire the fish tanks. On the bench right in front of him, a thin figure sits.

'Hello, Sherlock', Mary says. She gets up. 'This was always my favorite spot for agents to meet.'

Sherlock is stunned. He's out of his depth, here. After he came back from Samara and nothing happened, he assumed someone else shot Ajay, it was an unrelated incident, just bad timing. _Stupid, stupid Sherlock._

He takes a few steps forward, holding his hands halfway up, in a soothing way. Is she armed? Sherlock isn't, and it will be a while until John arrives with his gun. He feels foolish. Like a damsel in distress. He walks even closer to her, until he's at an arm's length. Maybe he can disarm her. 'I know you're in a panic, but just _think_. Your old life – it was full of consequences. The danger was the fun part, but you can't outrun that forever. Don't make matters worse for you now. Think about Rosie. We can talk, work something out.'

She grimaces. 'This isn't the part of the story where the villain talks about her motives until she's distracted and dies', Mary says, and punches Sherlock with the palm of her hand, hard, onto his bullet wound scar.

The pain is - recognisibly - like a being sticked by a fire-heated iron, it momentarily blinds Sherlock as he desperately gulps and gasps for air. He doubles over. Mary wastes no time and knees him in the gut. A hot white light flashes in front of Sherlock's eyes as he tries to get away, but she grabs him by the neck and throws him on the floor. He lands on his hands, quickly gathers all his strength and pushes up, turns swiftly around and puts his fists up in a classic blocking position. Those endless boxing lessons during childhood might prove their usefulness, though they never involved being weakened from a burning bullet wound. Only losing, over and over again, to a much older and stronger Mycroft. It's how he learned how to bite through pain.

The next punch she throws, he manages to duck, and in one swift movement he jabs her in the right ear. She staggers, but recovers quickly and deals out three consecutive blows to his ribcage, and then punches him in the mouth. Sherlock tastes the coppery warmth of blood. It makes him lash out like a hurt animal, and without much mind for coordination, he throws himself on top of her. They both stumble to the floor, his fingers are at her throat, when –

'Sherlock!'

It's John. He's arrived at the aquarium, shrouded in shadows, a shocked look on his face and a gun in his outstretched, steady hand. Sherlock releases his grip and Mary immediately starts coughing – rather dramatically, Sherlock thinks. He stumbles away from her, holding up his hands defensively. _Yes, I was choking your wife, but didn't we discuss this?_

'He just _attacked_ me', Mary says. 'Out of nowhere.'

'Shut up', John replies. 'Sherlock, are you ok?'

Sherlock gently rubs his scar, the pain quickly flooding back to him now that the immediate danger is over. 'Been better.'

'I called Mycroft on the way over here. Told me he didn't send any text messages', John says. 'He's on his way. Do you have anything to say before you're arrested, Mary, or whatever your name is?'

Mary very slowly rises, slipping back into her wife role. 'I did love you, John. I still do.' When John visibly winces, she continues. 'From the first time I saw you. You were so brave, I fell for you, hard. It may have been a game at first – but it was love all along.'

Sherlock gasps as puzzle pieces suddenly fall into shape. A truth he'd been grasping at the edges of for ages, now surfaces. _Tell me about your boss, Moriarty_ , Ajay asked in Samara. Mary didn't just work for the government. She did a little freelancing, as Magnussen put it. 'It was you at the pool.'

John shifts on his feet. 'What?' His eyes dart quickly from Sherlock to Mary, the barrel of his gun pointing at his treacherous wife, his abominable bride.

'It _was_ you, wasn't it? When John was strapped in a bomb jacket, Moriarty was there, he had... snipers. And we all know you can make a kill shot. I bet you were one of Moriarty's favorites, weren't you? A double agent. Addicted to a dangerous lifestyle.'

John releases the safety of his gun, an angry vein pulsating in his forehead.

'Being Mary Watson was the only life worth living', Mary says. John clears his throat, starts shaking his head. He's taken aback by Sherlock's deduction, by her words, and she uses the momentum to lash out at Sherlock, hiding her body behind him while holding him in a chokehold. With one hand she holds a tiny knife to his carotid artery. John's outstretched arm stiffens. He holds his gun like a trained soldier, calmly, professionally.

'There's no way out, Mary', Sherlock says. 'You're not leaving this place alive. Unless you cooperate.'

She laughs mockingly. 'You weren't really hoping for a fairytale ending, were you? I'm giving you a case, Sherlock. Can you deduce? How slowly you're going to die while watching John's face, watching it happen?'

Sherlock locks eyes with John.

'I've always known this was a suicide mission of sorts', Mary says. 'Go to hell, Sherlock. Now, any last goodbyes?'

At that moment, Mycroft and Lestrade stumble through the doorway, surprises on their faces at what they find. In that split second of confusion, John shoots Mary in the head, killing her instantly.

'Goodbye', John says.

Mary's body slides off Sherlock's back, who stands in shock, trembling, yet he keeps his face in check, staring at John, trying to read his emotions.

'Jesus, John, Jesus, God, no', Lestrade says as John lowers his gun and carefully lays it on the floor.

'Is she dead?'

Sherlock nods. 'I suppose even Scotland Yard can solve this one', he says, instantly regretting his joke as John flinches.

Greg Lestrade exchanges a knowing look with Mycoft. 'I have to arrest him, Mycroft. It's my job.' He reaches for the handcuffs attached to his belt.

'You will do no such thing', Mycroft says. He holds his gaze like a dangerous animal on alert. 'You saw it, it was self defense. Let's avoid the court case, shall we? Such a fuss.'

'It's the law', Greg says. His jaw clenches. 'No one's untouchable.'

'Greg...', Mycroft says, raising an eyebrow – as does Sherlock, but for slightly different reasons. Greg clears his throat, waits a few beats and then walks out in short, angry strides. The atmosphere in the room slightly relaxes.

Sherlock lets his arms drop to his sides. Didn't even realize he was hugging himself. He's still shaky, but takes a few careful steps toward John, tentatively reaching out to touch the back of his neck. John violently backs away.

'Don't you dare', he says, and flees the London aquarium.

 

***

  
It's about 2 AM in the morning when Mycroft finally comes home, drops his umbrella and his briefcase. He has spent all day making arrangements for John's alibi, making calls, calling in favors or leaving threats if necessary. He's the most powerful man in Britain, but there's only so much he can do. He feels completely drained, as he walks to the fridge and opens the door, yet takes nothing. When he closes it again, his eyes are drawn to the post-it note. _13_ _th_. Greg hasn't been in touch since the aquarium, he's gone to sleep at his old, dusty apartment. Mycroft stares at the note for a few long, sad seconds, then turns.

From the shadow of his kitchen, a small man steps forward. Mycroft nearly yells out from pure unfiltered fright. 'You've been naughty, my dear', Moriarty says.

  
***

  
The next morning, Sherlock rings John's doorbell. He's surprised when Molly steps onto the pavement, holding Rosie.

'Hi', Molly says softly. Sherlock doesn't know how much she knows about the situation. Barely anything, probably, as Mycroft has already texted him altered security footage from the aquarium. Few people in this world know the truth.

'I just wondered how things were going and if there was anything I could do', Sherlock stutters. To his surprise, Molly doesn't answer but reaches into her pocket, shakily unveiling an envelope.

'It's, uh, from John.'

Sherlock takes it and looks down. 'Right.' _Confusing._ Not really John's style. Though he _is_ a writer, of course. Always typing those useless blog posts.

'You don't need to read it now', Molly says gently yet firmly. She pauses. 'I'm sorry, Sherlock. He says... John said if you were to come around offering to help...'

'Yes?', Sherlock asks, hope lighting up his eyes.

'He said he'd... rather have anyone but you. Anyone.'

Sherlock blinks and pushes his lips together, watches in stunned silence as Molly slowly turns around and goes back indoors. Were those tears in her eyes? He never can really tell, her baseline is nervousness and twitchiness after all. Sherlock slowly walks away. It isn't until the cab ride that he reads the note, and his fingers start shaking uncontrollably.

_I killed Mary, but you are to blame. The short version is you're dead now. So have a nice fucking life. Don't come here anymore. Fuck right off, leave now._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- 'As if she were a secretary or a nurse and had something as normal and mundaine as colleagues.' is a tiny nod to the fact that it's unclear whether BBC Mary is a secretary or a nurse ;) 
> 
> \- что ты хочешь means 'What do you want?' Ajay learned Russian rather quickly. He is a Sherlock mirror after all. 
> 
> -When I write 'start-up button of his phone', it's because English is not my native language, but yeah also a reference to StartUp ;)
> 
> -Those idiots, right? Two more chapters after this one. Thank you for reading!


	3. The Lying Detective

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John blames Sherlock for Mary's death, so Sherlock turns to drugs and... something else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please take note: this chapter has a light dubcon element. It's nothing too grave, but consider yourself warned.

**JOHNWATSONBLOG.CO.UK**

 

\-- new update --  
  
14  th  May

Title: The lying detective

 

God, I miss my wife even though she packed up and left her family to hide from a murderous colleague, and she was a secret assassin who shot Sherlock in the chest. I see her ghost all the time. She smiles at me and asks Sherlock to wear the hat. Sometimes he replies to her. That's how invisible she is.

Things have been quite tough lately. I didn't speak to Sherlock for a while. This one time his brother called me to inform me he was eating chips.

Then one day he just showed up at my place. Well, kinda. Mrs Hudson drove to my therapist's house, and he was in the boot. He predicted everything that would happen, everything we would say. He didn't predict me beating him up though. He miscalculated.

Luckily my wife shot a dvd full of instructions. It was on Sherlock's mantlepiece. She told Sherlock to save me, isn't that weird? It was Sherlock that needed savin'. Mary, good old Mary, after all the murders she committed (come on now, only if she got paid!), she taught me to be the man she already thought I was. Miss her, hugged Sherlock, got shot in the face. Laters!

 

**REALITY**

 

Sherlock stumbles down the stairs, wearing his comfortable blue dressing gown. He can't hear his own footsteps over his thoughts, but he nevertheless thought he was treading lightly. Apparently not, because Mrs Hudson – as if called by some invisible force – emerges from her downstairs apartment. She must have been listening for him. _Must she have?_ Sherlock's not sure. That would require her to have absolutely no life of her own, because he hasn't left the flat in three days. Perhaps she is being paid to watch over him, Sherlock thinks. _Perhaps she's been under Mycroft's thumb all along._ He turns around and looks at her angrily.

'Sherlock?' A worried look on her face. 'Are you going out?'

 _She's wearing her purple blouse with a floral pattern, so she made an effort today. Probably to go to the shops. Lipstick, tiny breadcrumbs in the corner of her mouth: she fancies the baker. Wearing a lazy blue cardigan on top of the blouse now though, so no plans to go out anymore._ Sherlock doubles over, grunting. _Why are all these deductions so useless?_ _Where's all that brainy stuff about secret spies?_ Sherlock vaguely remembers a gunshot, Magnussen's glasses being knocked to the floor.

'I _think_ I remember the way', Sherlock replies sarcastically, and points to the door. 'It's through there, isn't it?'

'Oh, you're in no state, look at you!', Mrs Hudson exclaims, tilting her head to the side. Her pity feels unbearable to Sherlock. He'd almost _prefer_ it if she was a secret assassin.

'Yeah, well, I've got a friend with me, so', Sherlock replies, putting a loose curl in place, then changing his mind and putting it out of place again.

'What friend?', she asks. _Friends? I don't have friends._ Sherlock shakes his head as if the memories will fall off it like dandruff.

At that moment, there's two firm knocks on the front door, startling Mrs Hudson. Sherlock smiles at her proudly, and swings the door open.

'Mr Holmes!', a short man grins. He's carrying a suitcase in one hand, his jacket in the other.

'Mr. Smith', Sherlock says, extending his hand.

'I don't do handshakes. It'll have to be a hug.' Culverton Smith steps forward.

 

***

  
  
Culverton Smith has put his suitcase on the coffee table. He's seated on the leather sofa, legs relaxed, smiling at Sherlock, who sits restlessly in a nearby chair, plucking at his skin. Mrs Hudson is downstairs, presumably asking herself if she should bring tea or not.

'I was surprised to get your call, Mr. Holmes', Culverton says. He has a typical salesman's smile, except the teeth are all wrong. Sherlock decides not to stare at his mouth. He's staring at his mouth.

'I have... reasons', Sherlock answers. 'You smile so trustworthy in your ads.'

He carefully eyes the suitcase. It's a small, practical black trolley, almost an identical one to the pink case from his and John's first case together, except a less hideous colour. Sherlock grips the armrests of the chair. The room is spinning. It didn't used to do that.

'Smiling is advertising', Culverton says. He leans forward. 'But you're cheating, aren't you? You're already on something.'

'Only a little cocaine', Sherlock scoffs, offended. He touches his nose, even though he didn't snort it, but shot up earlier. His arm is littered with marks, memories of needle pricks, chasing forgetfulness but only heightening his senses. He's turned to mixing things now. Desperately.

Culverton opens his suitcase, its content being just out of sight. Sherlock restrains himself, refusing to lean in and give Culverton the satisfaction of confirming his curiosity. As long as Sherlock contains himself, he's in control of the situation. He _needs_ this though. _Another hit._

The salesman puts an IV bag onto the table and looks up. 'This is it. TD12. Colloquially known as _bliss_. It's opt-in ignorance, mr Holmes.'

'Anyone ever opt to remember?', he asks, licking his lips. They've been dry for ages.

'Some people take the drip out, yeah', Culverton replies, slightly surprised. 'Some people have the same urges as in that movie, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. But most are happy with what they bought. And if they're unhappy, soon they don't remember anyway.' A sinister smile. 'It is, of course, not like in the movies.'

'Naturally.' Sherlock remains unmoving while Culverton puts a large needle on the table, next to the IV bag. Then he starts connecting tubes, like a build-your-own drip feed.

'TD12 is a memory inhibitor. During our session, I will ask you to focus on the memories you wish to forget. The drug will do the rest. Like a virus. Even better – beyond viral.'

He's built a large stand-by now. 'Though I must warn you, Mr Holmes, I haven't tested TD12 in a combination with cocaine before. This will be an interesting test case for me, too.'

Sherlock smiles shortly, then lets his face drop. Is it too late to back out? He eyes the IV bag. Nothing he hasn't researched thoroughly before. But still. He puts his left hand on his right one, to stop it from shaking.

There's a rumble in the kitchen behind them. Bill pops his head through the door. 'Who you talkin' to?', he asks, then focuses on the man on the couch and raises his eyebrows. Culverton's smile falters.

'Piss off', Sherlock says, dismissively waving his hand. He gets up and walks toward the kitchen, meanwhile explaining to Culverton: 'That's Wiggins, my... dealer. Very handy to have a live-in one. Ten out of ten, would recommend.'

Sherlock grabs Bill's collar and starts pushing him toward the exit. 'Makes me a cup of tea sometimes.'

'Is _cup of tea_ code?', Bill asks, fighting back half-heartedly while backing away to the door. In the struggle, he pops the top button off Sherlock's shirt, that he's wearing underneath his dressing gown. Sherlock looks downright offended. He shoves the man out the door. 'It's a cup of tea', he says annoyedly to the closed door.

Upon returning his attention to Culverton, he's startled to find the man standing up. He's even smaller than he remembers from just ten minutes ago. Was it just ten minutes? Sherlock shakes his head. Time is relative. Relatively unimportant. There's too much of it anyway.

Culverton points to the sofa, next to which there's a stand holding the IV bag. TD12 is a clear fluid. Almost reminiscent of water.

'Please, lie down and relax for me, Mr Holmes.'

Sherlock rights his back and steps forward confidently, stretches his long legs over the brown leather and holds out his left arm invitingly. Better just get this all over with. Culverton slowly traces his finger across his the inside of his arm. It's an almost intimate gesture. Sherlock manages not to flinch, but he isn't sure if he's not shaking.

'I have a question for you', Culverton says. 'Why am I here?' He withdraws his hand to put on sterile gloves, meanwhile studying the detective.

Sherlock looks him in the eyes briefly, then averts his gaze. 'You know why you're here.'

Culverton fingers a rather thick catheter and bows down over his unusual patient. While tracing Sherlock's veins, he whispers: 'For legal reasons, I'd like to hear you say it. Say it for me, please.'

Sherlock looks him in the eye. 'I want you to erase my memories of John Watson.'

 

***

  
  
It's been 34 agonising minutes of letting the drug drip into his veins until Sherlock starts feeling the first effects. First, it's a slight softening of the ache in his chest. Then, it's like a warm hug spreading slowly from the inside, to the tips of his toes and the crane of his skull. He sighs a breath of relaxation.

Culverton, who had been walking around the apartment, studying books and letters (dangerously close to a note on the mantlepiece), notices the change in Sherlock's composure immediately. He sits on the chair next to the sofa, leans closer to Sherlocks head. 'The stage is set. We are ready to begin', he whispers.

Sherlock slowly lands this plane of bliss. Back to reality, insofar that's possible. There is work to be done, he knows. It's visitor's day in his mind palace.

'Now, mr Holmes, this is the fun part. One expert of the brain to another. Let's start with a smaller memory, shall we?'

Culverton touches his hand, rubs Sherlock's fingers one by one. He can't retreat his hand, can't move. Sherlock swallows. His lips are still dry, and now his mouth is, too. So, so dry. He tries to focus on a memory. It's an old one.

 

_'This is my friend, John Watson', Sherlock says, staring confidently at Sebastian. They'd been to uni together. Sebastian used to be one of his tormentors, never literally beating him up but he might as well have. 'Freak', 'useless junkie', 'fucking faggot'. But Sherlock is a proper adult now. He will rise above it all. Take the high road. Prove him wrong. His 'annoying deductions' are now helping him have a great career. And look, he even has friends._

_Sebastian looks him up and down with raised eyebrows, then settles on John with a smug smile. 'Friend?', Sebastian asks._

_'Colleague', John corrects him, shaking Sebastian's hand._

 

Sherlock's eyes are suddenly watery. Cursed side-effect of the drug. This is going to be torture. Culverton keeps rubbing his hand, massaging it. And suddenly Sherlock doesn't understand why his eyesight is blurry. Culverton's skin is oily but his fingers are soft. Sherlock slowly relaxes into his touch. It's hypnotising.

'That's right, that's good, let it all go. You're doing great', he says, soothingly. 'Now let's move on to a more painful memory. A bigger one. Find it. Good. Now _really_ focus on it. Really _feel_ it again.'

 

_Sherlock is standing in the graveyard. The sky is a clear white, the gravestones are all a pale grey except one. One is shiny and black and painfully new. John touches its corner with his fingers. 'I was so alone, and I owe you so much', he says. He sniffs, then breathes out erratically, as if someone kicked him. He walks away, stretches his hand, then changes his mind and turns. 'Oh please, there's just one more thing, right?', John says. 'One more thing.'_

 

Two tears slide down Sherlock's cheeks now. His heart is beating out his chest, protesting its own existence, but he doesn't know _why_. Culverton caresses his cheek, catches his tears with his bare fingers, cups his face into his hands. He's gentle. Sherlock doesn't _deserve_ gentleness, he thinks. He whimpers. 'More', Culverton says. 'You wanted this. Think about John Watson.'

 

_The Landmark is filled with people, yet there is only John and Sherlock. In the background, a woman is singing about her long lost love Yolanda. Sherlock hides his bruised and scarred and weakened body in a beautiful black suit, just like he hides his battered heart behind a painted-on moustache and a smile. 'Are you really gonna keep that?', he points to his mascara moustache, being cheeky, laughing nervously. He exchanges a glance with Mary, who seems to find it funny, too, so that's reassuring. But when he looks back at John, there is only blind anger as his hands grip Sherlock's neck and he pushes him onto the floor. It's like a thousand tiny knives are stuck into his back all at once. He grasps at John's hands, choking him. It's not how he pictured he would be holding John's hands after coming back._

 

When Sherlock opens his eyes, Culverton is gone. The drip is gone. The bag. Hours must have passed. The room is eerily quiet, yet there is a dark figure standing in the corner. Sherlock gets up. The figure, though blurry, he would recognise out of thousands: it's John. John is fast approaching him now, or more precisely: the floor is somehow sliding him closer, and John is radiating anger.

'Is this a game?' John yells at him. He punches him in the face, hard. 'A bloody game?'

Sherlock tries to rise, but John punches him again, on the nose this time. _If I had to hit that face, I'd avoid nose and cheekbones too._ Sherlock falters, lets himself drop to the floor, hoping that will make it be over sooner. He has wavered, hasn't he – conceded his loss. _Please let it be over._

But John's face is contorted and filled with hatred. He kicks Sherlock's unmoving body, in the stomach, in the ribs, the kicks keep coming. Sherlock bleeds onto the floor, closes his eyes, wishing it to be over, yet holds on to _feeling John one more time_.

 

***

 

'Please, please, please, please', Culverton says, gently slapping Sherlock's cheek. 'Calm down, mr Holmes, calm down.'

Cold sweat makes Sherlock's curls stick to his forehead. Culverton wipes it off with a tissue, then combs through Sherlock's hair soothingly. He's still on the sofa, and violently shivering.

'It's ok', Sherlock says feverishly. 'He's entitled. I killed his wife.'

'Who's entitled?', Culverton asks. 'It's just you and me in this apartment. We're all alone. I think it was probably not your wisest move to combine TD12 with cocaine. But you're going to be fine. Do you want to stop?'

Sherlock opens his eyes. 'No!'

'Ok, ok, don't worry. We'll soldier on. Perhaps we moved on to the heavier memories too fast. Try to focus on a good memory of doctor Watson, please.'

Sherlock's throat closes up and tears spring to his eyes. He shakes his head (or is he shuddering?). The memories are coming too fast now, slipping away at an alarming speed. _John smiling at him over Chinese food, John wishing him goodnight at the inn in Dartmoor, John hugging him closely at the wedding – one hand in his neck, one hand on his back, if only he could hold onto that one, the only one, please, please -_

It takes all his remaining strength, but Sherlock rips the IV drip out of his arm. It stings, but he bites through the pain and pays no mind to the blood, if anything the pain helps keep him grounded. He looks a startled Culverton in the eye.

'Enough about me, let's talk about you', Sherlock says, his voice low. 'Confession's good for the soul.'

A dark shadow crosses Culverton's face. He smiles his salesman's smile. 'Why would I need to confess?'

'Because', Sherlock grimaces, blood pumping through his veins – and a little onto the couch. 'You're a serial killer.'

To his surprise, Culverton laughs loudly, shoulders shaking. The whole room is moving now, walls turning around Sherlock. A dizzying effect. Sherlock squints his eyes closed, but opens them as Culverton caresses his cheek and leans closer.

'Am I a serial killer', he says gently, 'or are you off your tits on drugs?'

Sherlock dons a short smile that doesn't travel to his eyes. 'Both.'

Culverton leans back. They breathe in unison for a while, as they both consider their next move. A small smile spreads on Culverton's face.

'So tell me: why are we doing this? To what do I owe the pleasure?' he asks.

'I wanted to hear your confession', Sherlock says. He speaks rapidly now. 'I needed to know I was right. You love having an audience. You give people the drugs, then talk to them. They will forget what you said anyway. And sometimes, if they are unlucky, if they are people no one will miss, you kill them. You have to ration yourself, of course. Choose the right heart to stop. Can't draw too much attention to yourself, while still hiding in plain sight. Lucky for you, people in the business of forgetting often come across people who are easily forgotten anyway.'

Culverton leans closer, acknowledging nothing, only smiling cruelly. He rubs Sherlock's bottom lip softly. 'But why do you need to forget John Watson?'

Sherlock jerks his head to the side, weakly claws at Culverton's hands. The drugs in his system are incapacitating him, nearly paralysing him. He glances at the corner of the room, with pleading eyes. There's a conceiled camera hanging there.

'How can I confess', Culverton whispers, 'if _you_ won't?'

Sherlock swallows hard. Culverton is getting off on this, this is his kink, being morally superior over a defenceless, drug-addled victim, hearing their last words, taking those last secrets away from them more than anything.

'I have known many people in this world but made few friends', Sherlock starts. He's breathing shakily. 'And I can safely say, John Watson is the best and wisest man I know.' He stops, glances at Culverton, who's now smiling down at him. Sherlock feels bile coming up.

'I'm a lunatic, I'm a criminal, I'm insanely dangerous', Culverton admits in return, holding Sherlock's hand. Sherlock can feel its warmth spreading to his arms. He loathes how intimately good this feels. That this is the only affection – and perhaps the last piece of affection – he'll get.

Culverton is quiet. Waits patiently for the next move in this game, the next confession.

'Romantic entanglement', Sherlock physically pushes himself to say it, 'while only being a little fulfilling for other people, would _complete_ me as a human being.' A tear slips from his eye. Its slow path curves around his cheekbones, it almost tickles him. Culverton pushes down harder on his hand, squeezing it too tight now. It hurts. 'Why do you kill?', Sherlock asks, huffing.

'Why do I kill?', Culverton confesses in return. 'It's not about hatred or revenge. I'm not a dark person. It's... Killing human beings... It just makes me incredibly happy.'

Sherlock starts shaking as Culverton's hand travels higher, touching the puncture wounds in his arms carefully and almost lovingly. He bites his lip. Culverton pinches one of his old wounds.

'I... don't want to... love him.' Sherlock looks up. 'But I do. It is what it is.' He can't speak further, now. He just _can't._

'Dead people look like things. I like to make people into things', Culverton confesses. 'Then you can own them.' He slips his hand between Sherlock's open collar. Because Wiggins popped a button earlier, his shirt is more open than usual. Culverton rubs Sherlock's chest, rests a hand on his heart.

'You know what? I'm getting a little impatient', Culverton says, and suddenly he leans over Sherlock and puts both his hands on his mouth, cuts off his breath. _No_ , Sherlock thinks. He doesn't want to die, not again, he doesn't want to be found like that. He thinks of Mrs Hudson, of Mycroft. _Your own death is something that happens to everyone else. Your life is not your own._ Sherlock tries to struggle, but he's weak from the drugs, only barely scratching at Culverton's hands as he leans closer and whispers cruel things in his ears.

'Are you thinking about John Watson, right now?' Culverton asks. 'Is he even still in there, or have you already forgotten him completely? Will you die thinking of him, or die forgetting him? That's a philosophical question, isn't it?'

Tears spring to Sherlock's eyes as he struggles against the heavy weight on top of him. _Save John Watson, save him, Sherlock, save John Watson,_ his mind tells him _._ Their life together rapidly flashes before his eyes, as he tries to stop it from happening. Or from happening too fast. Dying. _Forgetting._ He savours the bachelor's night, the soft touch of John's hand on his knee. Them running off, handcuffed together. Making John a cup of tea. Seeing him walk around the apartment wearing only a towel. Playing the violin to him, gently. Their first case together, their first cab ride –

The door opens, a tea tray falls to the floor. One cup breaks, the other doesn't.

'Sherlock! You ok?', Mrs Hudson asks, unsure of what to do or what she just saw. Culverton has quickly let go, and Sherlock grasps for breath. He still has some John Watson in his mind, he checks quickly.

'Yes, Mrs Hudson, thank you.' He sounds slightly out of breath. 'Mr _Culverton Smith_ here was just leaving.'

Culverton smiles, calmly cleans up the IV bag and efficiently packs his suitcase like a seasoned salesman. He winks at Sherlock.

'I hope it was a good show', Culverton says cheekily.

Sherlock tries to sit up. The room is still slightly spinning. Or is _he_? He looks up at Culverton. _Did he just – ? Did he know about the cameras all along?_ Mrs Hudson is off to the kitchen, making loud noises, already trying to make new tea probably.

'I have a question for you.' Sherlock's voice is still hoarse from the choking. 'Why are you here? It's like you walked into my den and laid down in front of me.'

In the kitchen, Mrs Hudson puts the kettle on loudly, then rummages through the cupboards. Culverton Smith leans in closer again, puts his right hand on Sherlock's left cheek and whispers in his ear.

'Yes, Mr Holmes, I know about the cameras. But I know you won't use the footage.' Culverton leans a little back now, but keeps his face very close to him. Sherlock can feel his breath on his upper lip. He feels sick, being this close to Culverton. 'What's the very worst thing you can do to your very best friends? Hm, Mr Holmes?'

And he kisses Sherlock, on the mouth, slowly, softly. Sherlock can't move, is frozen in place. Culverton’s lips push into his, his tongue licks into his mouth. Then Culverton lets go, looks him straight in the eye. 'Tell them your darkest secret.'

 

***

  
  
For several minutes after Culverton has left, Sherlock just sits there, stunned. The foul taste of Culverton's lips is still on his lips. He frantically starts rubbing them, when Mrs Hudson returns from the kitchen. She confidently points a gun at him. Sherlock's mouth falls open.

'Oh, get over yourself. You're not my first smackhead, Sherlock Holmes.'

Sherlock looks offended. 'It was for a case!'

Mrs Hudson rolls her eyes. 'Show me. Where's your stash?'

'I am perfectly in control of my use, Mrs Hudson. I need you to know that up here' – he gestures at his temples – 'I've still got it. So when I tell you that Culverton Smith is the most dangerous, the most despicable human being that I have ever encountered, when I tell you that this – this monster must be ended...'

'I don't care if he's the queen of England. You need rehab. I'm calling your brother.'

Sherlock touches his lips briefly, then points at the door that Culverton just walked out of. 'That creature, that rotting thing, is a living breathing coagulation of human evil, and if the only thing I ever do in this world is drive him out of it then.... my life will not have been wasted.'

Mrs Hudson lowers her gun. 'Oh Sherlock', she sighs. 'You didn't kill Mary.'

Tears spring to Sherlock's eyes. He pulls his robe tighter around his body and walks to the mantlepiece, stares at the knife sticking through a note there. John's hateful note. He's quiet, then turns toward Mrs Hudson.

'I'm a mess. I'm in hell. But I'm not wrong. Not about him.'

He sighs and thinks of John. The effects of the TD12 will soon wear off, probably. Combined with cocaine it only accounts for _temporary_ memory loss, as he and Wiggins found out while experimenting with it. There is a hint of regretfulness. It was nice, to temporarily forget some of the more painful parts of John and his life together. _Loss. Heartbreak._

Mrs Hudson raises her gun again. 'Right, mister. First, you and I are going to flush the rest of your drugs down the toilet. And don't even think about deceiving me. Don't make me use the handcuffs. I happen to know there's a pair in the salad drawer.' A beat. 'I've borrowed them before.'

  
  
***

 

A few hours later, Sherlock wakes up from a nap. He feels better, most of his memories have come back now, he estimates. He can't be entirely sure though, he wonders, maybe some things are lost forever. Nevertheless, it will have been worth it, to catch Culverton Smith _in the act_.

Dread dawns over him as he thinks back about those final moments. The things he said about John were embarrassing, shameful. But it was Culverton's mistake to think that Sherlock would never feel comfortable sharing that with the world. Well – he would, maybe, if he had a choice. But those cameras are connected to Mycroft's place. They're still there from the time they were trying to catch Mary doing incriminating stuff. Sherlock turned them back on again just for Culverton's visit. If he guessed correctly, they provided a livestream to Mycroft's place.

Sherlock feels humiliated. But he's sure Mycroft will cut out the embarrassing parts for court. And hopefully never ever mention it again to him.

He gets up to make himself a cup of tea. The kitchen is clean now – Mrs Hudson got rid of all the drug paraphernalia. He decides to cut an orange to go with the fresh tea, just because he's in a good mood. Catching a serial killer is not something you do everyday.

He's halfway through slicing the orange, when in the corner of his eye, his phone catches his attention. It's quiet. Which suddenly strikes him as odd. A few hours ago, he was lying on that sofa, getting tortured, being choked to death. A dangerous murderer tried to kill him, and yet, half the government _hasn't_ been employed to come to his rescue?

The knife slips from his hand, clatters on the floor as Sherlock dashes from the kitchen, out the door. Mycroft didn't _see_ the video. At all. Conclusion. Mycroft is definitely in danger.

 

***

  
  
Mycroft's door is easily unlocked – the only tricky thing is the security code, but every time it changes, Mycroft sends Sherlock his new code. Not in a normal message, but coded, in a skip code text message. Sherlock checks his last message in the cab, one of the many unread ones in his cellphone. It's a quite ironic one, if you consider the danger he's probably in right now.

 

_Know that I am not even at great risk. MH  
_

 

The first word doesn't count, and taking every third word into account, a simple enough code. That leaves I, Even and Risk, only the first letter of the word in this case. They each represent their respective numbers if you number the alphabet. So I = 9, E = 5 and R = 18. _Mycroft is getting rather lazy_ , Sherlock thinks: only a four digit code this time: 9518.

He types it into the alarm pad and enters Mycroft's house. All the lights are on, which is very unlike his brother. In the kitchen, he opens the fridge. Not much food in there, but nothing's expired either, so Mycroft can't have been missing for long. Of course not: otherwise Lady Smallwood would have called him, at least. Unless the government prioritises covering up a huge fuck-up over Mycroft's safety, which wouldn't surprise Sherlock. _Nor would I hold it hugely against them,_ his mind wanders to jokes when he’s feeling extra anxious.

Sherlock slams the fridge door closed and walks into the living room. Confidential looking files lay spread on the large chesterfield sofa. That's _very_ unlike Mycroft.

'Mycroft?', he yells. A small part of him hopes Mycroft can't hear him being something close to _worried_ about him; he'll hold it over him forever.

Then there's an almost inaudible sound coming from the bedroom. _Surely he won't be – ?_ Sherlock shakes off a thought, a memory of Mycroft calling Lestrade 'Greg'. _Why would he call him Greg anyway? Weird nickname._ No, the sound was more like a thump, nothing remotely sensual, so Sherlock makes a beeline for the bedroom. When he arrives, however, it's entirely empty.

Is this some sick game of hide and seek? 'Mycroft?' Sherlock yells again, feeling rather silly. This time, there's a harder sound, coming from his brother's closet. But when he opens it, nothing. Closet is really an understatement. It's more like a small room, full of his ridiculously expensive, not even very nice suits, and some ties as well. For a few seconds, Sherlock doesn't know what to do, looking aimlessly through the suits. Then – an idea, and he searches more frantically. Until he pushes a button and – yes, of course. Mycroft loves his spy stuff. A secret door slowly opens.

The door reveals a bigger room behind it. Inside, spread out on the floor, Mycroft lies, mouth taped and hands tied behind his back, chained to a smaller closet inside. Sherlock dashes over to him and quickly rips the tape from Mycroft's mouth, only deriving a small amount of pleasure from the tiny yelp his brother produces.

'What happened', he asks, looking around to find something to cut the chain with. Not very likely in this space, it seems: the room is full of colourful, expensive dresses and shoes. Sherlock stills, and sits down, sighing. Mycroft manages to sit up, hands still tied behind his back. He sniffs indignantly, even though he must be starving and is most definitely a little dehydrated.

'I think it's quite clear what happened', Mycroft says. 'I got caught by surprise. Didn't see my attacker at all. Well. He put me in here, tied me up without any water. I wouldn't have lasted another day without you.' A small pause. 'Of course, my _colleagues_ would have come looking for me too.'

Sherlock ignores the explanation. He can't stop staring at all the dresses. And the women's shoes, in an unusually large size, and unusually ... sparkly.

'I guess uncle Rudy wasn't the only cross-dresser in our family', Sherlock remarks dryly. 'Though I should have deduced, you enjoyed playing Lady Bracknell just a little too much.'

Mycroft swallows and looks down. His shoulders slump.

'You are never knowingly under-clichéd are you', Sherlock says. 'The posh boy likes to dress in woman's clothing.'

'Shut up', Mycroft says. 'I can do what I want in the privacy of my own home.'

'You're welcome by the way', Sherlock says. 'For rescuing you.'

They sit quietly for a while. Neither of them mention the fact that Mycroft is still chained with his hands behind his back. Mycroft sure as hell isn't going to beg his little brother to free him.

'Do you want to know her name?' Mycroft nods toward the dresses.

Sherlock looks at him, curiosity filling his face.

'Her name is Eurus', Mycroft says.

Sherlock huffs. 'That's not a name. It's a currency.'

'It's Greek. means the East Wind', Mycroft says. How he manages to still be the biggest smart-ass in the room, even chained and exposed, baffles Sherlock. Though he respects it, too.

'Well.' Sherlock smiles. 'That's suitable, at least. That it's _Greek_.'

They both sit quietly, shoulder to shoulder. Two brothers, bonding, one bound. Suddenly, Sherlock starts laughing uncontrollably. Mycroft looks offended.

'It's just, I – ', Sherlock starts, but loses control over his laughter once again. 'It's just I – I can't believe I literally found you _inside the closet_.'

They are both laughing, now. The tension leaves the room. Until Mycroft gives Sherlock a knowing look, and Sherlock's laugh slowly fades from his cheeks until he stares at his hands sadly. He clears his throat.

'After I free you, and you look through your video feeds, you will find a new tape from the surveillance camera you have in my flat.' Sherlock glances at his brother. 'Oh, don't look at me like that. I _am_ a genius. Anyway. There will be some useful parts to incarcerate a dangerous serial killer. However, there are some things spoken... that I would be very grateful if you 'lost' that part of the evidence file in the cutting room.'

Mycroft looks surprised, then nods. 'How _is_ John?', he asks.

Sherlock unconsciously rubs his lips.

'He's furious. He wrote me a note. I know it by heart by now: _I killed Mary, but you are to blame. The short version is you're dead now. So have a nice fucking life. Don't come here anymore. Fuck right off, leave now.'_

Mycroft swallows, doesn't quite know how to respond. He fumbles with the chains behind him.

'That doesn't really sound like John', Mycroft says. Sherlock just shrugs, and gets up, gets out of the closet to go and find a tool to cut the chains that hold his brother. Or secret sister?

 

***

 

After the cab ride home, Sherlock walks straight to the mantlepiece and turns the note over and over in his hands, inspecting it, even shining an ultraviolet flashlight on it. Nothing. Until suddenly, a realisation dawns onto him. Oh, clever, clever John. It's a skip code.

 

 _I killed_ _**Mary** _ _, but you_ _**are** _ _to blame._ _**The** _ _short version **is**_ _you're dead_ _**now** _ _. So have_ _**a** _ _nice fucking_ _**life.** _ _Don't come_ _**here** _ _anymore. Fuck_ _**right** _ _off, leave_ _**now** _ _._

 

Every third word. It's very rudimentary, but he made do with what he got. _Clever, clever John._ Because it is so clever that Molly was allowed to hand it over to him. _Mary-are-the._

_Moriarty is now alive, here right now._

Sherlock stuffs the note in his pocket, and runs to the stairs. John Watson is definitely in danger.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Mrs Hudson fancies the baker because she lives in Baker Street. Yes, I think I'm funny, thank you for asking.
> 
> \- The morgue beating: I wish very desperately for it not to be real. Even writing this hallucination was kind of painful.
> 
> \- John hugging Sherlock at the wedding was an exact reverse of Sherlock hugging John in TLD. It's the only scene I had to give up with a pang of regret. 
> 
> \- Sherlock remembering how John walked through the apartment wearing only a towel is a tiny nod to the 'weird scripts' the fandom found a few weeks back.
> 
> \- Was the letter a little far-fetched? I'm not sure. But I spent ages trying to figure out a skip code. So please be kind.
> 
> \- Is this whole story far-fetched? I don't know anymore, I'm just the writer. Was S4?


	4. The Final Problem

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One word. It changed his life forever. A name. Moriarty.  
> Sherlock panics: John is being held captive by Moriarty. It's The Final Problem. Have you figured out what it is yet?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter. I'm nervous to post this because now maybe you guys are gonna say “wow, what a waste of time reading this”. I tried my best to fire all Chekov's guns. No dogs were wounded.
> 
> Quick warning: there's going to be a lot of drama. But I happen to know you're all Sherlock fans, so I guess you'll be fine with that. :)

**JOHNWATSONBLOG.CO.UK**

 

\- - new update - -  
  
16st May  
**Title: The final problem**

Wow, so this is going to be my last blog post. Since I'm currently stuck in a freeze frame and all. Here's a short summary of what happened. We rigged paintings so they would shed tears of blood and we hired a clown to scare Mycroft. Luckily he didn't actually kill him with his umbrella gun! Then Mycroft told Sherlock he had a secret sister he didn't remember and we all planned to visit her, even though Mycroft withheld some pretty crucial information about Redbeard. Turns out the secret sister, Eurus, had prepared for our visit by setting up some Saw-like puzzles in her prison on Shutter Island. Though first she tried to blow us all up with a patience grenade. Boop, and we were fine. Didn't even affect the rug!

Once we were at the prison, Sherlock forgot what glass looked like. And Eurus mimicked the voice of a little girl just to mess with us. Thank god she only needed a hug! Ok, she killed a few people – including Sherlock's childhood best friend – but give her a break y'all. Let's play some violin duets with her. Ok, she also put me inside a well. Which Sherlock kinda forgot was there even though he grew up in that house. Sherlock is a little forgetful now that I think about it.

 

**REALITY**

 

Greg Lestrade feels rather silly holding these flowers. He shifts on his feet nervously, dropping the flowers casually to his side, then changing his mind and cradling them carefully in front of him. They're beautiful, white roses. He got into an argument at the flower shop. Supposedly, the lily of the valley is perfect to say sorry. But these roses are just so very Mycroft. Majestic, elegant, and armed with thorns if necessary. Though now he's not so sure about bringing flowers. Perhaps they are too feminine?

Greg rings the doorbell, even though he knows the entrance code. It feels wrong to just _walk in_ after a fight.

He hears absolutely no footsteps approaching, but after about a minute, the door swings open anyway. Mycroft is impeccably dressed and freshly shaven. He's wearing a tight-fitting blueish grey suit with a matching tie, held together with a tie clip. He looks stunning, but not relaxed at all. It's not an appropriate attire for hanging around at home.

Mycroft lifts his eyebrows as Greg holds out the roses. 'Oh', he says. 'I suppose this means you're just _so_ terribly sorry for trying to arrest doctor Watson after he shot the woman who was trying to cut my brother's throat.'

Mycroft grabs the bouquet, abruptly turns around and walks off, not looking back. A few seconds, Greg stares into the dark hallway, then decides an open door is as close to an invitation he's going to get. He stomps to the kitchen, where Mycroft is arranging the roses in a glass vase. His back is tense, but his movements elegant. After it becomes clear Mycroft won't turn around, Greg clears his throat.

'Mike, please. You know I'm not good at this stuff. I'm a policeman, I did what I was trained to do. But yeah, looking back... I'm glad you didn't let me arrest John.'

Mycroft turns around and softens as he looks Greg over.

'It's fine.' He looks at his hands. They're a little wet from handling the flowers. He wipes them on an expensive kitchen towel. 'Actually, there's something I need to tell you.'

Greg frowns and follows a twitchy Mycroft into the living room, then into the bedroom.

'What, in the bedroom?', Greg smiles.

But inside, the closet door is wide open. That's unlike Mycroft, who would freak out if Greg left a chair even an inch more to the right than it usually stood in this house. He's learned to adjust to Mycroft's preferences and oddness – he's grown fond of his quirks, even.

Mycroft stops in front of the open closet door. Well, _dressing room door_ is a more apt term for this port to a room full of suits. Mycroft lifts his chin and looks him in the eyes, as if ready for battle.

'I've never – No. You should know... Well. We've been together for a _year_ , Greg. Please remember that as I show you my closet.'

'Mike, love, I've already seen your closet and yeah it's maybe a little ridiculous but –' Greg doesn't finish his sentence, because Mycroft leads him into the hidden space behind the row of suits. Into a dazzling room, filled with colourful garments, hanging everywhere.

'What's this?' Greg asks. Mycroft closes his mouth and just watches as Greg touches some of the dresses, frowning, then looks at the women's shoes carefully arranged on shelves. It's a slow process as Greg puts two and two together, then his eyes widen.

'Sometimes I like to be her', Mycroft says quickly, rehearsed. 'I call her Eurus Holmes. She's very smart and a bit of a diva. She can be naughty, and quite funny.' His voice falters as he looks up. Redness has crept up Greg's neck, reaching his cheeks.

'We've been together for a _year_ ', Greg Lestrade repeats Mycroft's own words back to him. Only this time, there's a hint of reproach, of blame. Of disgust? Mycroft flinches, but Greg doesn't even notice it as he walks out the closet, out the door, into the darkness of the night.

'Stop', Mycroft says, softly, into the emptiness. 'I need you.'

 

***

 

Sherlock stands under the white arch at John's house and rings the doorbell. The last time he was here, Molly handed him a note and it felt like taking a knife to the gut. Now his whole body is shivering with a soft panic coursing through his veins. The aftermath of the mix of TD12 and cocaine is still making him nervous, but he wills his body to calm down. The door opens to reveal a tall, attractive black man in a suit. He looks like he could be one of Mycroft's secret servicemen, but he's not, of course. He has one gun loosely in his belt, one hiding in his inner pocket, and a lifetime of bad decisions. He smiles at Sherlock. Moriarty is not even bothering to send Molly as a diversion anymore; as ever, the criminal mastermind is one step ahead in the game. And Sherlock isn't even completely sobered up. He nods, and steps inside.

Sherlock calmly takes off his Belstaff and hangs it on the coat rack next to the door, then turns and scans the living room. Apart from the man who let him in, there are two more guards positioned on either side of the room, both armed but not waving their firearms around. They seem relaxed. One of them has a visible gang tattoo in his neck, the other has a golden earring and carries a cosh. _Boring._ On the sofa, John sits with his wrists tied in a ziplock in front of him, and grey duct tape across his mouth. He looks tired, but has no visible injuries. When his eyes meet Sherlock's, panic flashes across them. He must still look like a junkie, Sherlock deduces.

In the middle of the room is Moriarty. He's wearing white earphones and dances dramatically to his own private music, while showing off his body in a tight, dark blue suit with a dark blue shirt underneath and a matching tie. Sherlock waits patiently, ignoring John for now. After about twenty seconds of this, Moriarty takes out the earphones.

'Thank you for bringing in the entertainment, Sebastian', Moriarty tells the guard, then smiles at Sherlock. 'You're late.'

'Did you miss me?' the detective replies. One corner of his mouth twitches into a grim smile.

Moriarty steps closer and playfully hooks his finger in Sherlock's top buttonhole. He's still wearing the blue shirt he wore when Culverton visited, even though he slept in it for a few hours. Sherlock makes a point not to back away, while Moriarty leans closer to his face. 'You look so... unsure', he says. 'You're not used to being unsure, are you?'

Sherlock bends his face slightly toward Moriarty. 'You cheated on the rooftop', he says with a low grumble.

'Look who's talking.' Moriarty smiles. 'Do you see how it was done? I know you like explanations.'

Neither of them backs away. Sherlock tilts his head, and remembers a Victorian fever dream he once had. 'You didn't shoot the gun aimed at your head, but you shot another, tiny gun in your other hand aimed at the floor. I wasn't paying attention. I was in shock. It looked too real. I panicked.'

Moriarty takes a step back and claps. 'Beautiful, that was beautiful.' He looks at John. 'Wasn't that beautiful, Johnny boy? Well. I'll forgive you for not clapping, but only once.'

John moves his zip-tied hands toward his face, to remove the duct tape, but the golden-earringed guard waves his cosh at him and shakes his head. John drops his hands in his lap immediately.

Moriarty feigns sadness. 'I _still_ owe you a fall, Sherlock. Like this.' He quickly moves his arms up and slams his wrists on either side of Sherlock's head, hard. Sherlock goes down.

 

***  
  
When Sherlock wakes up, his saliva-covered cheek rests against something hard. Someone's shoulder, it seems. He opens his eyes. They've put him on the sofa next to John, zip-tied with his hands in front of him, but no duct tape, _thank god_. Slightly embarrassed, he quickly sits upright and exchanges a look with John. He looks worried. Sherlock raises his hands and rubs his right temple. He can't have been unconscious for long.

'Sorry, not a good moment to nap', he jokes dryly. John glares. 'Tough audience', Sherlock mumbles.

In the silvery lounge chair to their right, Moriarty watches them patiently.

'Where's Rosie?', Sherlock demands. Suddenly his whole body is filled with pure terror. If they've laid a finger on her, he will lunge at Moriarty and strangle him, zip-ties be damned.

Moriarty rolls his eyes. 'Family is always difficult.' He nods at the guard with the scar and the gang tattoo, who disappears up the stairs. Sherlock rubs the excess saliva from his chin, then tries to rub the saliva stain off John's shirt. No use. John is calm, so Rosie must still be alive. He's also incredibly tense, in an almost professional way – he's in soldier mode.

Soft footsteps descend the giant white stairs at the other end of the room. It's Molly, cradling a sleeping baby. She's followed by the guard who's strangely in awe of Rosie. He smiles fondly at her, distorting the long scar on his cheek. Molly stops right by the built-in shelves in the wall, as far away from Moriarty as she can manage. She exchanges a fierce look with Sherlock and John.

'Welcome... to the final problem', Moriarty says. He swiftly stands up and walks toward Molly. She glares and shields Rosie away from him.

'Maintain a distance of three feet', she warns him. He just takes a few more steps. But even though he stands close, he doesn't reach out to Rosie. Molly is shielding her with her whole body now.

'Molly Hooper', Moriarty says, turning halfway around to look John in the eye. 'The only one Sherlock trusted. Well, her and a dozen tramps. But the only one who could help him with his plan to fake his death. What do you think, John? Did they concoct the plan during pillow talk?'

John averts his eyes, refuses to react.

'Did they have a nice goodbye shag, laughing about how they would deceive you into thinking Sherlock was _really_ dead?', Moriarty taunts.

'Don't be absurd', Sherlock mumbles. He needs to get Moriarty's attention away from Molly and Rosie, as soon as possible. 'Why don't _we_ have a nice private conversation in the upstairs bedroom?'

Next to him, John squirms, but Sherlock refuses to look his way. Moriarty's mouth falls open.

'Oh! This is rich', he squeals.

'Be quiet', Molly tells Sherlock. 'Is this supposed to be a game?'

'I will not have your blood on my hands', Sherlock says, then he looks down. 'Please, Moriarty. _Jim._ Let them leave.'

Moriarty approaches and rests his hands on Sherlock's knees. He can feel his breath on him.

'Shirly', Moriarty says. 'Do you really think I'd be so clumsy as to go into a room with you _alone_ _right now_?'

He nearly screams the last three words, and the sound wakes Rosie up. She starts crying, fills the house with a piercing sound. Sherlock's heart skips a few beats. _No._ Molly rubs Rosie's back and talks to her soothingly, but the child must somehow sense the tension in the room and keeps crying. Moriarty lets go of Sherlock's knees and turns around, looks at Rosie angrily, and in a fraction of a second John throws himself on his back, tackling him. They both fall into the glass coffee table. It shatters. John's hands are tied, but he manages a half-punch before the guard with the golden earring pulls him off and knees him twice in the stomach, then throws him back onto the sofa. John coughs violently, tears springing to his eyes. Sherlock tries to lunge for the guard, but gets hit with the cosh on his jaw, hard. Sherlock yelps.

Moriarty starts laughing, while lying on his back surrounded by broken glass and bleeding from a cut to his lip. He gets up and brushes the tiny pieces of glass off his body. He cracks his neck.

'Babies are so boring', he says loudly, topping Rosie's crying fit. 'Molly, if you attempt to call the police, or warn anyone in any way, I will find you and kill you. Both. Now, get out.'

Molly looks at Sherlock and John hesitantly. John is still doubled over on the sofa, but nods through his pain. Sherlock gives an encouraging smile. The tattooed guard slightly relaxes while Molly walks toward the door, holding Rosie close. Sebastian holds the door open for them.

'Tick-tock tick-tock tick-tock', Moriarty taunts. 'The offer will expire soon!'

They leave, and soon Rosie's cries in the street can't be heard from the inside anymore. The room is unbearably silent. Moriarty stretches and goes upstairs, to the bathroom, to wash the blood off his face. Sherlock and John are left alone with the three guards, who stare in silence. Sherlock glances at John.

'Are you all right?' he asks.

John positions himself upright. His eyes are dark.

 

***  
  
Sherlock has dozed off, still drowsy from the last effects of cocaine and TD12 leaving his system, when suddenly, Moriarty grabs him by the collar. He drags him over the broken coffee table to the kitchen. Two guards remain in the living room with John; Sebastian is already in the kitchen, leaning against the cupboard near the dishes, and watches unflinchingly as Moriarty pushes Sherlock down into a chair. The table is littered with take-away food, but in one swift violent movement Moriarty wipes off the half empty boxes. Three strings of spaghetti get stuck to the window. Pasta sauce drips off the wall.

'Oh come on now, that was freshly painted!', Sherlock says.

'It needed some redecorating', Moriarty replies. He sits on the chair opposite Sherlock and holds out his hand expectantly to Sebastian.The guard hands him a sharp knife, which Moriarty starts caressing. Sherlock watches him warily.

'Hold out your hands', Moriarty says. Sherlock doesn't move. He swallows. How much longer will he have to bear this? 'Give me your hands or I'm going to do this with John instead.'

Sherlock stretches his zip-tied hands across the dirty table board. He swallows and looks up at Moriarty, who suddenly slams the knife down into the table, three inches away from Sherlock's hands. Then he holds his hands softly, almost like a lover would. He smiles.

'Sherlock, my dear, don't be so nervous.' He digs his nails in Sherlock's palm. 'I wouldn't hurt you... much. Yet.'

'What do you want?' Sherlock asks. He tries his best not to shiver.

'Girls just want to have fun, Sherlock', Moriarty replies. He grins. 'But I know you didn't come here without a plan. You're not that dim. So, Sherlock? What's the plan?'

Moriarty strokes Sherlock's wrist. Sherlock swallows. He involuntarily glances at the door.

'So you think someone's coming', Moriarty deduces. He presses his lips to Sherlock's wrist. 'Is it Mycroft? Did you warn Big Brother before coming over here?'

Sherlock stares at his hands, blinking rapidly. Moriarty throws his head back and starts laughing loudly.

'You're right, of course. Mycroft _is_ coming', Moriarty says, and whips his head toward the open kitchen door, yelling toward the upstairs part of the house. 'Oh Mycroft! Come on down, will you?'

Sherlock feels suddenly dizzy. He watches as Mycroft descends the stairs, wearing a dark blue cocktail dress that goes down to her knees. Underneath she wears black, vintage leatherette and suede Bettie Page pumps. Her legs are smoothly shaven, neck and shoulders are exposed. A dark-haired wig finishes the look. Mycroft looks at Sherlock, guilt burning behind her eyes.

'Have you met Eurus, your secret sister?', Moriarty asks. 'Look at his clothes. He's made an effort.'

Mycroft's nude shoulders slump, suggesting a vulnerability Sherlock has not yet seen.

’Her clothes’, Sherlock corrects. ‘ _She_.’ 

'You know I could arrest you for wearing a dress like that', Moriarty comments. Mycroft shifts on her feet uncomfortably.

'Would you like me to take it off?', Mycroft glares.

'You should put that on a t-shirt', Moriarty says. He stands up and touches Mycroft's cheek. 'I'm just kidding. You know I prefer my puppet nicely dressed up.' He looks at Sherlock. 'Please, continue with your deductions.'

Sherlock stares incredulously. It feels like puzzle pieces falling together and a puzzle falling apart at the same time. The Bruce Parthington Plans case, handed to him by Mycroft but ultimately leading to Moriarty's trap. Mycroft making him take Irene Adler's case even though it was only about some boring kinky photographs, no real threats made to the palace. The fact Moriarty kept on escaping prosecution, even though he blew up an old lady's apartment killing a dozen people, _and_ even though he kidnapped John. Mycroft not warning John about Mary even though the government knew she was an assassin (was _she_  'the English woman' who betrayed AGRA in Tbilisi?). And then of course, the Miss You video being aired across the country right as Sherlock's plane left.

Sherlock's hands start shaking as all the conclusions slap him in the face. All this time, his own family was under Moriarty's thumb. He should have seen it. Why didn't he see it?

Moriarty looks at Sherlock, deeply amused. 'And now there is context', he says.

Sherlock ignores the man and shoots an accusatory look at Mycroft. 'I just wanna know... why? Because he had pictures of you in _dresses_? Because you'd lose your job if your colleagues saw them? Or you'd simply be embarrassed? I'm your _brother_ , Mycroft.'

Mycroft shakes her head. 'Don't be slow, Sherlock.' Mycroft glares at him indignantly, even in a tight cocktail dress. 'He threatened to _kill you_. If I didn't do as he pleased. Haven't you figured it out yet?'

Sherlock closes his mouth. They stare at each other silently. Sherlock is shaking with rage.

'Well, this is awkward', Moriarty says. He nudges at Sebastian, who drags Mycroft off to the living room. They're now both alone in the kitchen, and Moriarty steps closer to rub through Sherlock's curls.

'I'm the only one you can trust, Sherlock. You're going to see that soon.'

  
  
***

  
Back in the living room, Mycroft and John are seated on the sofa next to each other now, both looking quite uncomfortable with each other. Not because Mycroft is wearing a dress, but because John could hear the whole kitchen conversation from the living room. He sits as far away from her as possible.

Sherlock sits in the silvery lounge chair, long legs stretched, not looking at either of them. He stares at the broken glass of the coffee table. Among the wreckage, there's a broken vase as well, scattered flowers, and a stuffed elephant of Rosie's.

Moriarty meanwhile, is skipping around the room cheerfully. He stops at the coat rack near the front door and strokes Sherlock's Belstaff. He decides to put it on and walks further, inspecting the photo frames across the room while whistling _Stayin' Alive_. Until suddenly, he stops dead in his tracks. Then takes a few more tentative steps. He hears a low crispy sound when the coat moves. Quickly, Moriarty takes it off. Sherlock's head perks up. He's frozen in terror as Moriarty retrieves the knife from the kitchen and cuts open part of his coat. He reaches inside, and reveals a small stack of folded papers. Letters.

Sherlock's heart skips two beats. He briefly closes his eyes. These are the letters he wrote to John while he was undercover, dismantling Moriarty's network across Europe. Sherlock had sewed the letters into his coat. Just in case he'd die, and hopefully the coat would end up in John's hands. Sherlock curses himself. He should have thrown them away a long, long time ago. Sentiment. _Caring is not an advantage._

Moriarty doubles over with laughter. 'Ohhhh, this is fun! This is fun', he says, and grabs a small round white table to use as a stool. He adopts a high-pitched voice as he starts reading the first letter aloud:

 

_'Dear John,_

_If you are reading this, I'm dead.'_

 

Moriarty doubles over with laughter as Sherlock, John and Mycroft stare at him in mortification, confusion and horror. Sherlock doesn't dare to look at his friend and sibling. He just wishes desperately to disappear into the ground, swallowed by a hole, to live out his days in a well.

'Well', Moriarty says, 'He's going to be dead in a few hours anyway so we might as well read it now, okay, Shirly?'

Sherlock flinches. 'Oh!', Moriarty taunts. 'You don't like being called _Shirly_? That's what my sister used to call you, wasn't it?'

Sherlock's mouth feels dry. He can't do anything but stare, frozen in place, in time. He's been an idiot.

'Oh, you didn't know? He really is the slow one, isn't he, Mycroft', Moriarty says. 'How else did Mary get into Magnussen's building with a gun, do you think? Her friend Janine let her up. My sister Janine. She said you're a good kisser...'

Moriarty makes kissing noises at Sherlock, who looks away and stares at his tied hands in his lap. All this information is overwhelming. He can't think straight anymore.

'But back to the main event. These letters are really something, Sherlock... Let's read a little more.' Moriarty reads the whole first letter out loud in a mocking voice:

 

_'Dear John,_

_If you are reading this, I'm dead._

_It has occurred to me that you already know this fact. You already believe I'm dead. But in fact, I didn't die falling from that rooftop. I lied._

_I will forever be sorry. And now I'm sorry to burden you once again with the knowledge that indeed, I was alive. This is selfish. And silly._

_SH.'_

 

Moriarty laughs. Sherlock stares at his useless fingers that wrote such stupid words. He's shivering, though it's not even cold in the room. His throat is dry. This is a nightmare, nothing but a nightmare, he tells himself. From the corner of his eyes, he sees John tense up. He doesn't dare look directly at him, though, as Moriarty moves on to the next letter:

 

_'Dear John,_

_I changed my mind. Yes, I'm selfish for writing you these letters. But there are so many days not lived, so many words unsaid. Please know that I faked my death to protect you. Always you, John. Moriarty had snipers on you. I could not, at any point, suggest that there was any form of crisis. Now I'm dismantling his network but I think they'll catch me soon.'_

 

Moriarty sighs. 'Et cetera et cetera et cetera', he mocks, then throws the next one on the floor as well, then stops. His face lights up with glee, and Sherlock knows. This is the one. This is it. His life ends here, even if he lives. Sherlock watches Moriarty take an excruciatingly long breath before he reads the next letter, pronouncing each word with a melodramatic, mocking tone:

 

_'Dear John,_

_I will try once more. With shaking hands. With a heavy heart. I know I will be dead soon. I was chasing a Serbian coffin maker, but now he's chasing me._

_There's something I should say. That I meant to say, always, and never have. Since it's unlikely we'll ever meet again, I might as well say it now._

_I love you._

_SH.'_

 

Moriarty laughs loudly. Tears stream from his eyes as he reads all the next letters and drops them to the floor. They're not really letters anymore, just notes, in increasingly distorted handwriting, saying _I love you. I love you. I love you._

Then Moriarty wipes his tears and is suddenly dead serious. He gets up and yells in Sherlocks face. 'John is not gay, Sherlock, you idiot. How. Many. Times. Does he have to tell you?'

Sherlock averts his eyes.

'Actually, let's ask, shall we?' Moriarty turns to John and steps over the shards of the glass table to reach him. 'What would _John_ have to say to all this?'

Moriarty rips off the duct tape that covers John's mouth. John winces. Sherlock quickly glances at him. John doesn't break eye contact with the consulting criminal – doesn't even so much as blink – as he bends down to him. He just glares at Moriarty, stubbornly silent. _Probably doesn't want to hurt me in front of him,_ Sherlock deduces. His eyes fill with tears, but he bites his tongue, willing his emotions away. _John Watson. A good man._

'That's what I thought, Johnny boy', Moriarty says, and he turns around, walks to the kitchen and puts on the kettle.

  
  
***

Sherlock stares into space. He's determined to go to his mind palace. He won't stay here. Not here, not in this room, not after he's been humiliated to the bone. But while Moriarty is in the kitchen, John leans forward and puts his zip-tied hands on his left knee. Sherlock looks up and blinks rapidly.

'Look', John says quietly. 'I know this is difficult and I know you're being tortured, but you have got to keep it together.'

The guard with the neck tattoo scrapes his throat and John straightens his back quickly, lets go of Sherlock's knee. Moriarty enters the room, sipping tea. He walks up to Sebastian and offers him the half empty cup. In exchange he gets a half empty gun.

'It's make-up-your-mind-time', Moriarty almost sings. He walks up to Sherlock. 'This gun has only one bullet. Now who do you need the most? John or Mycroft?'

He takes Sherlock's zip-locked hands and puts the gun in them, defiantly placing it against his heart.

'How do you know I won't just shoot _you_?' Sherlock asks.

Moriarty smiles. 'Because then my dear guards will shoot all three of you. A bit of a mess, wouldn't it be?'

He straightens, and Sherlock almost drops the gun, shaking.

'It's an elimination round', Moriarty says. 'You choose one and kill the other. You have to choose family or friend. Mycroft or John Watson? The first one lied to you for years, and the second one, _you_ lied to for years.'

Mycroft and John both look at each other, horrified. Mycroft has taken off her pumps, revealing a beautiful, red polka dot pattern inside. Mycroft curls her toes, a sign of stress. 'Well? We're not actually going to discuss this, are we?', she says.

Sherlock looks up, unsure.

'Shoot doctor Watson', Mycroft urges. 'Whatever lies ahead, requires brain power.'

Sherlock stares at Mycroft, or rather - Eurus. John's mouth falls open, he tries to speak, but can't.

'Don't prolong his agony', Mycroft says, and turns to John. 'Soldiers die for their country.'

John meets Sherlock's eyes. He doesn't know what to say. He can't ask him to kill his own blood, can he? Though no such objections seem to impair Mycroft.

'Put this stupid little man out of his misery', Mycroft says, with a slight tremor in her voice. Sherlock stands up from his chair, pointing the gun at the floor, but half-raising his hands already.

'Please, for God's sake, just stop it', Sherlock says. He glances at John. 'Ignore everything she just said. She’s being kind. She’s trying to make it easy for me to kill her.'

Moriarty sits on the small table he used earlier, sips his tea, watches with a broad smile on his face.

'Sherlock, don't', John says, but with little conviction.

'It's not your decision, doctor Watson', Mycroft says, as she rubs the skirt of his dress. 'And anyway, this is all my fault.' She looks Sherlock in the eyes, who's pointing his gun right at her now, shaking. 'Not in the face, though. I've promised my brain to the Royal Society. Perhaps the heart? Though I don't imagine it's much of a target.'

They both smile at each other, sadly.

'And here we are, at the end of the line', Moriarty says. 'Holmes killing Holmes.'

Sherlock's eyes light up with an idea. He carefully turns the gun around so it points at himself, and raises the gun to his own chin.

'No!' John rises from the sofa. 'Sherlock, no. I will not allow this.'

Moriarty rises from his chair, too, in a light panic.

'Your life is not your own', John says, clenching his fist. 'Keep your hands off it. Your own death is... something that happens to everybody else.'

Sherlock swallows hard and looks him in the eye. Can he really do this to him, again? In front of him? He blinks rapidly. His hands shake.

Then the doorbell rings.

 

***

A long, absurd silence. The doorbell rings again, and Moriarty steps to the window and pushes the blinds slightly open. He looks back at Sherlock, who has lowered his gun, its barrel pointing to the floor now. 'It's that old wrinkly landlady of yours', Moriarty whispers.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. How very like Mrs Hudson to come at the most inopportune time.

There's a rustling, the sound of a key being put inside a lock. The three guards tense, and Sebastian goes to the door, his gun half-raised already.

'You gave her a key?' Sherlock mouths to John, as if that's something to scold him for. John figures, well, _maybe it is._

Mrs Hudson slowly opens the door, looks straight into the armed man's eyes, and screams like a madwoman. The dinner plate she was holding in one hand, smashes to the floor, and she inexplicably bends down to pick it up, even though the plate is broken and the food is smeared across the welcome mat.

At that moment, a bullet lodges itself in Sebastian's head, and Greg Lestrade hops over a bent Mrs Hudson, right into the room.

 

***  
  
****

_**Four hours earlier.** _

 

Mycroft lies in his fancy chaise longue. He has, of course, cleaned first. Put all the confidential documents safely away. Then started cleaning his closet, but ended up giving the whole house a sweep of the broomstick. Then added water. He cleaned and cleaned but never felt dirtier in his life. As he rests on the chair, eyes closed, still wearing his yellow gloves, his thoughts are suddenly interrupted by footsteps. He opens his eyes.

It's Greg. The man looks at him cluelessly.

'What's up with you? Have you been cleaning this whole time?'

Greg still wears his jacket and, peculiarly, holds a large box in his hands.

'What are you doing here?' Mycroft asks. He's tired.

'Look, yeah, okay, I ran off a little abruptly, but you kind of sprang it on me there, mister', Greg says. He comes closer, offers up the box. It's an old, round shoebox. He sits down on the chaise longue next to Mycroft and lifts the lid himself. Inside are shiny, Betty Page black shoes with a beautiful red polka dot pattern inside.

'They're real vintage. My mom used to wear them', Greg says. 'I thought you might like them.'

Mycroft looks up, his mouth falls open.  
  
'You don't have to wear them if you don't like them. I mean, I just mean to say, I love you. All of you. And that means I want to know all parts of you. Even Eurus. Even if that's a ridiculous name.' Greg sighs and puts his hand on Mycroft's cheek.

Mycroft can't speak due to something being stuck in his throat, so Greg hugs him closely.

'You know I love Mycrosoft', he says.

' _Don't_ call me that', a muffled voice replies.

  
  
***

  
Everything happens all at once now. Greg Lestrade shoots the guard with the golden earring who stands closest to Sherlock. Mrs Hudson reaches behind her back, grabs the gun her skirt was hugging and fires it into the other guard. His gang tattoo is no longer intact. Sherlock twists the gun around and points it at Moriarty, who holds his hands up.

'I surrender! I surrender!', Moriarty says quickly. Sherlock's lip quivers ever so slightly.

Behind him, John lifts his hands above his head and brings them down quickly into his stomach, his elbows flaring out and his shoulder blades tensing together. It causes his zip ties to break quickly at their weakest point, the locking mechanism. He puts his free hands on top of Sherlock's wrists.

'Sherlock, don't. Let the bastard rot in jail', John says gently. Greg puts handcuffs on Moriarty while Sherlock lowers his gun. All the adrenaline now leaves him at once, his legs start shaking and he has to sit down again in the silvery chair.

After Moriarty is handcuffed, John punches Moriarty in the face. He falls down, and John kicks him, once more for luck. Moriarty whimpers on the floor. John's shoulders relax. No more of this. Not ever. He turns around, grabs the knife close-by and slices Sherlock's zip ties open, freeing his hands.

Lestrade has reached Mycroft on the sofa, now. 'You alright?', he asks.

Mycroft nods and stands up. She looks at John. 'We good?'

John nods, and takes in the whole vision of Mycroft, wearing her blue cocktail dress like a badass. 'Yeah... So. This, eh? I always thought you wore odd socks.'

Mycroft smiles briefly, then looks around and walks to the door, where Mrs Hudson is already cleaning the food mess on the doormat. Sherlock looks at Greg.

'Make sure she's looked after', Sherlock urges him. 'She’s not as strong as she thinks he is.'

Greg nods. 'Yeah, I'll take care of her.'

'Thanks, Greg', Sherlock says. And suddenly it hangs in the room. Sherlock is no longer pretending to not know Lestrade's first name.

'You're a good man, Sherlock', Greg says, before leaving them to be with Mycroft and Mrs Hudson, who are now both outside, talking and hugging. John bends down to Sherlock, puts his hands on his knees.

'Look, I gotta call Molly about Rosie, okay?', John says.

Sherlock nods. He looks at his hands, that are still trembling terribly. _Stupid hands._ He gets up while John makes a phone call in the kitchen. He collects his cut-up coat, then looks around, frowning. That's odd. The notes have disappeared.

 

***

Sherlock arrives at 221B in a daze. While John was still on the phone, he'd stepped outside, moved quietly past Lestrade, Mycroft and Mrs Hudson and hailed a cab. He just needed to leave.

Sherlock hangs his ripped coat on the rack downstairs and climbs the stairs. He's suddenly so, so tired. He wants to wrap himself into a blanket and never wake up, but he doesn't even make it to the bedroom. He drops down on the sofa and lies down, closing his eyes, opening them again, closing them. Of course he can't sleep _now_. He gets up to sit in his chair, opposite John's old chair. It's empty. He folds his hands underneath his chin and stares at it.

Footsteps on the stairs. Sherlock doesn't look up. He knows this conversation is coming. It's been forced upon them by Moriarty. He never wanted this. It wasn't.... needed, in any capacity.

John oscillates in the doorway. Sherlock refuses to look at him, but John goes up to him and bows down, forcing himself in Sherlock's line of vision.

'John, please. This isn't necessary. It is what it is, can't we just... Leave it be? Just leave me alone for a few weeks. We'll just never mention it, like proper British adults.'

John kneels on the floor next to Sherlock's legs and reaches for Sherlock's hands, pulls them down into his lap. Of course. Of course, this. John has always let his girlfriends down gently. If Sherlock is an expert at solving crimes, John's an expert at dissolving relationships. Sherlock rolls his eyes.

He shakes his head. 'Let's just be professional about this. I'm just a junkie who solves crimes to get high, and you're a doctor who never came home from the war. It's about the legend, the stories, the adventures.'

John pushes a note into Sherlock's hand. He winces. 'We'll just burn these, John. It doesn't matter. Who I... really am.'

'Sherlock...', John says, manipulating Sherlock's fingers into unfolding the note. It's one of the many _I love you_ notes. Sherlock cringes, and closes his eyes, like a castle's gate, hoping to hold back the tears.

'Sherlock... _Look_ , you daft idiot', John repeats. Sherlock opens his eyes, and a tear escapes. He looks down at the note. And suddenly, he sees it. It doesn't read _I love you_. It reads _I love you too_.

His breath hitches. He looks up, into John's eyes, whose face is contorted with emotion.

'I've been an idiot, Sherlock', he says. 'I'm sorry it has taken me so long. You are the best and wisest man I've ever known. And I love you too. _I love you,_  William Sherlock Scott Holmes _._ '

He leans forward and wipes the tear off Sherlock's cheek. Sherlock looks in shock, and John can't help but smile at this ridiculous man. He grabs his knee for support – he doesn't mind, after all – and leans closer to Sherlock, almost but not entirely bridging the gap to his lips. He wants to make this easy for the detective, but he'll have to cross the distance, make that last step.

Sherlock slightly tilts his head forward and presses his soft lips to John's, carefully, as if he'll break him or chase him away. He's hidden his true feelings for so long that, even now, grasping the note in one hand and feeling John's fingers caress his cheek, he still expects John to suddenly hit him in the face for this. But John leans in and presses his lips a little firmer. Turns out he's an excellent kisser, but of course, Sherlock had already deduced that.

With his right hand, John ruffles through Sherlock's curls while he deepens the kiss. Sherlock moans softly, turning John into a right mess. John licks Sherlock's bottom lip with his tongue, then moves slightly deeper. His left thumb now caresses Sherlock's inner thigh while Sherlock licks inside John's mouth like a pro, meanwhile using his hands to rub John's neck, teasingly rub behind his ears. A virgin? What was Mycroft on about all those years ago?

They break loose for a second. 'Bedroom?', John asks.

'Bedroom.'

  
  
***

 

John is at the kitchen table in Baker Street, typing away happily at his computer. Rosie is in her play pen, ripping her stuffed elephant to pieces. Sherlock approaches John from behind, puts a steaming cup of tea on the table and then rubs John's shoulders. He reads the computer screen and huffs at what John is writing in his blog.

'Ridiculous, John, a top secret meeting in a building made of glass walls? And why am I such a huge dick who's tweeting during Rosie's baptism? Redbeard being a _boy_? And a secret sister who's evil and can magically hypnotise people? Mycroft will _love_ that. You watched too many Bond movies, mister.'

John shrugs. 'You said you _liked_ those Bond movies.'

'Mmm. I don't think these blog posts are a good idea', Sherlock says. 'They're too over the top. People will know something is wrong. And anyway, only lies have detail, John.'

John looks up lovingly at Sherlock. 'So you don't want to hear all the details of exactly how much I love you?'

Sherlock quirks a smile. 'I guess I have been wrong before. For example, I thought you didn't like men. What about all those women you dated?'

John smiles and kisses Sherlock softly. 'I am bisexual, Sherlock. And yes, I dated a lot of women, but looking back, I just didn't want you to know I fancied you. You shot me down on our first date at Angelo's, remember?' He sighs. 'I guess those women were kind of... my alibi.'

Sherlock looks offended. 'Loving me is not a crime, John. It's not 1895.'

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- White roses are traditionally associated with marriages and new beginnings. So Lestrade picking these to give to Mycroft... Well. He's a softie and he doesn't even know it.
> 
> \- Greg asks 'What? In the bedroom?' as he follows Mycroft. It's a little nod to John's words in A Scandal in Belgravia, optimistically holding a wine bottle, right before he saw Irene sleeping in Sherlock's bed.
> 
> \- I really didn't wanna kill off Molly and Rosie. To me, the scene in TFP where the governor and his wife are shot, represents 'killing heteronormativity'.
> 
> \- Yes, the three spaghettis on the kitchen window are the three Garridebs. Lmao. Let me have this, ok?
> 
> \- I based Mycroft's dress on the dress Iggy Pop wore for a T Magazine photoshoot, where he said the famous quote “I'm not ashamed to dress like a woman because I don't think it's shameful to be a woman.” Bless that man.
> 
> \- I probably should have made Sherlock’s letters to John longer but I couldn’t handle it, to be honest. My heart.
> 
> \- Zip ties can be broken the way John did it. Look it up to save a life ;)
> 
> \- John's odd socks comment to Mycroft refers to “Odd socks? Arrest the brother in law”, an advice Sherlock texts in TST.
> 
> \- This fic is now finished. Or should I add some deleted (sex) scenes? Lol.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [Tumblr](http://fellshish.tumblr.com/)


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